




















Amid a civilization of feverish and often too 
futile activity, E. M. Forster stands as a soli- 
tary anachronism—an English gentleman in the 
legal sense of the word—in short, an idler, 
writing only when he wants to and living 
quietly with his mother in a Surrey village, 
near and yet far from London. Only at rela- 
tively long intervals does he appear briefly m 
the world of busy men to deliver a newly- 
completed book. 

His sympathies are rather with the past and 
the East rather than the present and the West, 
although he has visited India, the scene of “A 
Passage to India,’ only once. 





E. M. FORSTER 





A Passage To India 


by & &M. Gorster 





HIS is a story of India—India the romantic and the old 
in conflict with India the practical and the new. All 
those gross misunderstandings and the subtler misunderstand- 
ings that must arise when two races live together, conscious of 
an urge to transplant a “civilization” and of as vigorous an urge 
to keep one’s own, are presented against the colorful back- 
ground of Kipling’s India. The conflict has its climax when 
Miss Quested, a newcomer to India, believes she has been 
wantonly attacked by a heretofore respectful Indian, Dr. Aziz, 
in one of the Marabor Caves. 
Beautiful, ironic and clear as divining crystal is Forster's 
revelation of the Moslem and the Hindu mind and that strange 
anomaly, the mind of the Anglo-Indian. 











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A PASSAGE TO 
INDIA 


By E. M. FORSTER 


pRY OF PRIN 
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(JUN | 5 1990 






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GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers 
‘By arrangement with HARCOURT, BRACE & COMPANY 


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COPYRIGHT, 1924, By 
HARCOURT, BRACE-AND COMPANY, INC, 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


To 
SYED ROSS MASOOD 


AND TO THE SEVENTEEN YEARS 
OF OUR FRIENDSHIP 


Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2022 with funding from 
Princeton Theological Seminary Library 


httos://archive.org/details/passagetoindiaOOfors 0 


A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


PART I: MOSQUE 
CHAPTER I 


is ee for the Marabar Caves—and they are 
twenty miles off—the city of Chandrapore presents 
nothing extraordinary. Edged rather than washed by the 
river Ganges, it trails for a couple of miles along the 
bank, scarcely distinguishable from the rubbish it de- 
posits so freely. There are no bathing-steps on the river 
front, as the Ganges happens not to be holy here; indeed 
there is no river front, and bazaars shut out the wide 
and shifting panorama of the stream. The streets are 
mean, the temples ineffective, and though a few fine 
houses exist they are hidden away in gardens or down 
alleys whose filth deters all but the invited guest. Chan- 
drapore was never large or beautiful, but two hundred 
years ago it lay on the road between Upper India, then 
imperial, and the sea, and the fine houses date from that 
period. The zest for decoration stopped in the eighteenth 
century, nor was it ever democratic. There is no painting 
and scarcely any carving in the bazaars. The very wood 
seems made of mud, the inhabitants of mud moving. So 
abased, so monotonous is everything that meets the eye, 
that when the Ganges comes down it might be expected 
to wash the excrescence back into the soil. Houses do 
fall, people are drowned and left rotting, but the general 
outline of the town persists, swelling here, shrinking 
there, like some low but indestructible form of life. 
ii 


8 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


Inland, the prospect alters. There is an oval Maidan, 
and a long sallow hospital. Houses belonging to Eur- 
asians stand on the high ground by the railway station. 
Beyond the railway—which runs parallel to the river— 
the land sinks, then rises again rather steeply. On the 
second rise is laid out the little civil station, and viewed 
hence Chandrapore appears to be a totally different place. 
It is a city of gardens, It is no city, but a forest sparsely 
scattered with huts. It is a tropical pleasaunce washed 
by a noble river. The toddy palms and neem trees and 
mangoes and pepul that were hidden behind the bazaars 
now become visible and in their turn hide the bazaars. 
They rise from the gardens where ancient tanks nourish 
them, they burst out of stifling purlieus and unconsidered 
temples. Seeking light and air, and endowed with more 
strength than man or his works, they soar above the lower 
deposit to greet one another with branches and beckoning 
leaves, and to build a city for the birds. Especially after 
the rains do they screen what passes below, but at all 
times, even when scorched or leafless, they glorify the 
city to the English people who inhabit the rise, so that 
new-comers cannot believe it to be as meagre as it 1s 
described, and have to be driven down to acquire dis- 
illusionment. As for the civil station itself, it provokes 
no emotion. It charms not, neither does it repel. It is 
sensibly planned, with a red-brick club on its brow, and 
farther back a grocer’s and a cemetery, and the bunga- 
lows are disposed along roads that intersect at right 
angles. It has nothing hideous in it, and only the view 
is beautiful; it shares nothing with the city except the 
overarching sky. 

The sky too has its changes, but they are less marked 
than those of the vegetation and the river. Clouds map 
it up at times, but it is normally a dome of blending tints, 
and the main tint blue. By day the blue will pale down 
into white where it touches the white of the land, after 
sunset it has a new circumference—orange, melting up- 


MOSQUE 9 


wards into tenderest purple. But the core of blue per- 
sists, and so it is by night. Then the stars hang like 
lamps from the immense vault. The distance between the 
vault and them is as nothing to the distance behind them, 
and that farther distance, though beyond colour, last freed 
itself from blue. 

The sky settles everything—not only climates and 
seasons but when the earth shall be beautiful. By her- 
self she can do little—only feeble outbursts of flowers. 
But when the sky chooses, glory can rain into the Chan- 
drapore bazaars or a benediction pass from horizon to 
horizon. The sky can do this because it is so strong and 
so enormous. Strength comes from the sun, infused in it 
daily; size from the prostrate earth. No mountains in- 
fringe on the curve. League after league the earth lies 
flat, heaves a little, is flat again. Only in the south, 
where a group of fists and fingers are thrust up through 
the soil, is the endless expanse interrupted. These fists 
and fingers are the Marabar Hills, containing the ex- 
traordinary caves. 


CHAPTER II 


BANDONING his bicycle, which fell before a ser- 

vant could catch it, the young man sprang up on to 
the verandah. He was all animation. ‘‘ Hamidullah, 
Hamidullah! am I late?” he cried. 

“Do not apologize,” said his host. ‘ You are always 
late.” 

“Kindly answer my question. Am I late? Has 
Mahmoud Ali eaten all the food? If so I go elsewhere. 
Mr. Mahmoud Ali, how are you?” 

“Thank you, Dr. Aziz, I am dying.” 

“Dying before your dinner? Oh, poor Mahmoud 
LM ie 


10 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“ Hamidullah here is actually dead. He passed away 
just as you rode up on your bike.” 

“Yes, that is so,” said the other. “ Imagine us both 
as addressing you from another and a happier world.” 

“Does there happen to be such a thing as a hookah in 
that happier world of yours?” 

“Aziz, don’t chatter. We are having a very sad talk.” 

The hookah had been packed too tight, as was usual in 
his friend’s house, and bubbled sulkily. He coaxed it. 
Yielding at last, the tobacco jetted up into his lungs and 
nostrils, driving out the smoke of burning cow dung that 
had filled them as he rode through the bazaar. It was 
delicious. He lay in a trance, sensuous but healthy, 
through which the talk of the two others did not seem 
particularly sad—they were discussing as to whether or 
no it is possible to be friends with an Englishman. Mah- 
moud Ali argued that it was not, Hamidullah disagreed, 
but with so many reservations that there was no friction 
between them. Delicious indeed to lie on the broad 
verandah with the moon rising in front and the servants 
preparing dinner behind, and no trouble happening. 

“Well, look at my own experience this morning.” 

“T only contend that it is possible in England,” replied 
Hamidullah, who had been to that country long ago, be- 
fore the big rush, and had received a cordial welcome at 
Cambridge. 

“Tt is impossible here. Aziz! The red-nosed boy has 
again insulted me in Court. I do not blame him. He 
was told that he ought to insult me. Until lately he 
was quite a nice boy, but the others have got hold of 
him.” 

“Yes, they have no chance here, that is my point. 
They come out intending to be gentlemen, and are told 
it will not do. Look at Lesley, look at Blakiston, now it 
is your red-nosed boy, and Fielding will go next. Why, 
T remember when Turton came out first. It was in an- 
other part of the Province. You fellows will not believe 


MOSQUE II 


me, but I have driven with Turton in his carriage— 
Turton! Oh yes, we were once quite intimate. He has 
shown me his stamp collection.” 

‘““He would expect you to steal it now. Turton! But 
red-nosed boy will be far worse than Turton! ”’ 

“T do not think so. They all become exactly the same, 
not worse, not better. I give any Englishman two years, 
be he Turton or Burton. It is only the difference of a 
letter. And I give any Englishwoman six months. All 
are exactly alike. Do you not agree with me? ”’ 

“IT do not,” replied Mahmoud Ali, entering into the 
bitter fun, and feeling both pain and amusement at each 
word that was uttered. “ For my own part I find such 
profound differences among our rulers. Red-nose mum- 
bles, Turton talks distinctly, Mrs. Turton takes bribes, 
Mrs. Red-nose does not and cannot, because so far there 
is no Mrs. Red-nose.” 

muasrabesin. 

“Did you not know that when they were lent to Cen- 
tral India over a Canal Scheme, some Rajah or other 
gave her a sewing machine in solid gold so tnat the water 
should run through his state? ” 

“And does it? ” 

* No, that is where Mrs. Turton is so skilful. When 
we poor blacks take bribes, we perform what we are 
bribed to perform, and the law discovers us in conse- 
quence. The English take and do nothing. I admire 
them.”’ 

“We all admire them. Aziz, please pass me the 
hookah.” 

“Oh, not yet—hookah is so jolly now.” 

“You are a very selfish boy.”’ He raised his voice sud- 
denly, and shouted for dinner. Servants shouted back 
that it was ready. They meant that they wished it was 
ready, and were so understood, for nobody moved. Then 
Hamidullah continued, but with changed manner and evi- 
dent emotion. 


12 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“But take my case—the case of young Hugh Ban- 
nister. Here is the son of my dear, my dead friends, the 
Reverend and Mrs. Bannister, whose goodness to me in 
England I shall never forget or describe. They were 
father and mother to me, I talked to them as I do now. 
In the vacations their Rectory became my home. They 
entrusted all their children to me—I often carried little 
Hugh about—I took him up to the Funeral of Queen 
Victoria, and held him in my arms above the crowd.” 

“Queen Victoria was different,’ murmured Mahmoud 
Ali. 

“I learn now that this boy is in business as a leather 
merchant at Cawnpore. Imagine how I long to see him 
and to pay his fare that this house may be his home. 
But it is useless. The other Anglo-Indians will have got 
hold of him long ago. He will probably think that I 
want something, and I cannot face that from the son of 
my old friends. Oh, what in this country has gone wrong 
with everything, Vakil Sahib? I ask you.” 

Aziz joined in. ‘Why talk about the English? 
Brrrr ...! Why be either friends with the fellows 
or not friends? Let us shut them out and be jolly. 
Queen Victoria and Mrs. Bannister were the only ex- 
ceptions, and they’re dead.” 

“ No, no, I do not admit that, I have met others.” 

“So have I,” said Mahmoud Ali, unexpectedly veer- 
ing. “ All ladies are’ far from) alike) Their moodwmes 
changed, and they recalled little kindnesses and courtesies. 
“ She said ‘Thank you so much’ in the most natural 
way.” “ She offered me a lozenge when the dust irritated 
my throat.” Hamidullah could remember more important 
examples of angelic ministration, but the other, who only 
knew Anglo-India, had to ransack his memory for scraps, 
and it was not surprising that he should return to “ But 
of course all this is exceptional. The exception does not 
prove the rule. The average woman is like Mrs. Turton, 
and, Aziz, you know what she is.” Aziz did not know, 


MOSQUE 13 


but said he did. He too generalized from his disap- 
pointments—it is difficult for members of a subject race 
to do otherwise. Granted the exceptions, he agreed that 
all Englishwomen are haughty and venal. The gleam 
passed from the conversation, whose wintry surface un- 
rolled and expanded interminably. 

A servant announced dinner. They ignored him. The 
elder men had reached their eternal politics, Aziz drifted 
into the garden. The trees smelt sweet—green-blossomed 
champak—and scraps of Persian poetry came into his 
head. Dinner, dinner, diriner . .. but when he re- 
turned to the house for it, Mahmoud Ali had drifted 
away in his turn, to speak to his sais. ‘‘ Come and see 
my wife a little then,” said Hamidullah, and they spent 
twenty minutes behind the purdah. Hamidullah Begum 
was a distant aunt of Aziz, and the only female relative 
he had in Chandrapore, and she had much to say to him 
on this occasion about a family circumcision that had 
been celebrated with imperfect pomp. It was difficult 
to get away, because until they had had their dinner she 
would not begin hers, and consequently prolonged her 
remarks in case they should suppose she was impatient. 
Having censured the circumcision, she bethought her of 
kindred topics, and asked Aziz when he was going to be 
married, 

Respectful but irritated, he answered, “Once is 
enough.” 

“Yes, he has done his duty,” said Hamidullah. ‘ Do 
not tease him so. He carries on his family, two boys 
and their sister.” 

“ Aunt, they live most comfortably with my wife’s 
mother, where she was living when she died. I can see 
them whenever I like. They are such very, very small 
children.” 

‘““ And he sends them the whole of his salary and lives 
like a low-grade clerk, and tells no one the reason. What 
more do you require him to do?” 


14 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


But this was not Hamidullah Begum’s point, and hav~ 
ing courteously changed the conversation for a few mo< 
ments she returned and made it. She said, “ What is 
to become of all our daughters if men refuse to marry? 
They will marry beneath them, or ” And she began 
the oft-told tale of a lady of Imperial descent who could 
find no husband in the narrow circle where her pride 
permitted her to mate, and had lived on unwed, her age 
now thirty, and would die unwed, for no one would have 
her now. While the tale was in progress, it convinced the 
two men, the tragedy seemed a slur on the whole com- 
munity; better polygamy almost, than that a woman 
should die without the joys God has intended her to re- 
ceive. Wedlock, motherhood, power in the house—for 
what else is she born, and how can the man who has 
denied them to her stand up to face her creator and his 
own at the last day? Aziz took his leave saying ‘“ Per- 
haps ... but later . . .”——his invariable reply to such 
an appeal. 

“You mustn’t put off what you think right,” said 
Hamidullah. ‘That is why India is in such a plight, 
because we put off things.” But seeing that his young 
relative looked worried, he added a few soothing words, 
and thus wiped out any impression that his wife might 
have made. 

During their absence, Mahmoud Ali had gone off in 
his carriage leaving a message that he should be back in 
five minutes, but they were on no account to wait. They 
sat down to meat with a distant cousin of the house, 
Mohammed Latif, who lived on Hamidullah’s bounty and 
who occupied the position neither of a servant nor of an 
equal. He did not speak unless spoken to, and since 
no one spoke kept unoffended silence. Now and then he 
belched, in compliment to the richness of the food. A 
gentle, happy and dishonest old man; all his life he had 
never done a stroke of work. So long as some one of his 
relatives had a house he was sure of a home, and it was 





MOSQUE 15 


unlikely that so large a family would all go bankrupt. 
His wife led a similar existence some hundreds of miles 
away—he did not visit her, owing to the expense of the 
railway ticket. Presently Aziz chaffed him, also the ser- 
vants, and then began quoting poetry, Persian, Urdu, a 
little Arabic. His memory was good, and for so young 
a man he had read largely; the themes he preferred were 
the decay of Islam and the brevity of Love. They listened 
delighted, for they took the public view of poetry, not the 
private which obtains in England. It never bored them 
to hear words, words; they breathed them with the cool 
night air, never stopping to analyse; the name of the 
poet, Hafiz, Hali, Iqbal, was sufficient guarantee. India 
—a hundred Indias—whispered outside beneath the in- 
different moon, but for the time India seemed one and 
their own, and they regained their departed greatness by 
hearing its departure lamented, they felt young again 
because reminded that youth must fly. A servant in scar- 
let interrupted him; he was the chuprassi of the Civil Sur- 
geon, and he handed Aziz a note. 

“ Old Callendar wants to see me at his bungalow,” he 
said, not rising. “ He might have the politeness to say 
why.” 

“‘ Some case, I daresay.” 

“‘T daresay not, I daresay nothing. He has found out 
our dinner hour, that’s all, and chooses to interrupt us 
every time, in order to show his power.” 

“On the one hand he always does this, on the other 
it may be a serious case, and you cannot know,” said 
Hamidullah, considerately paving the way towards obe- 
dience. “Had you not better clean your teeth after 
pan?” 

“If my teeth are to be cleaned, I don’t go at all. I 
am an Indian, it is an Indian habit to take pan. The 
Civil Surgeon must put up with it. Mohammed Latif, 
my bike, please.” 

The poor relation got up. Slightly immersed in the 


16 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


realms of matter, he laid his hand on the bicycle’s saddle, 
while a servant did the actual wheeling. Between them 
they took it over a tintack. Aziz held his hands under 
the ewer, dried them, fitted on his green felt hat, and then 
with unexpected energy whizzed out of Hamidullah’s 
compound. 

“Aziz, Aziz, imprudent boy. ...” But he was far 
down the bazaar, riding furiously. He had neither light 
nor bell nor had he a brake, but what use are such ad- 
juncts in a land where the cyclist’s only hope is to coast 
from face to face, and just before he collides with each it 
vanishes? And the city was fairly empty at this hour. 
When his tyre went flat, he leapt off and shouted for a 
tonga. 

He did not at first find one, and he had also to dispose 
of his bicycle at a friend’s house. He dallied further- 
more to clean his teeth. But at last he was rattling 
towards the civil lines, with a vivid sense of speed. As 
he entered their arid tidiness, depression suddenly seized 
him. The roads, named after victorious generals and 
intersecting at right angles, were symbolic of the net 
Great Britain had thrown over India. He felt caught 
in their meshes. When he turned into Major Callendar’s 
compound he could with difficulty restrain himself from 
getting down from the tonga and approaching the bun- 
galow on foot, and this not because his soul was servile 
but because his feelings—the sensitive edges of him— 
feared a gross snub. There had been a “ case” last year 
—an Indian gentleman had driven up to an official’s house 
and been turned back by the servants and been told to ap- 
proach more suitably-—only one case among thousands of 
visits to hundreds of officials, but its fame spread wide. 
The young man shrank from a repetition of it. He com- 
promised, and stopped the driver just outside the flood ot 
light that fell across the verandah. 

The Civil Surgeon was out. 

“ But the sahib has left me some message?” 


MOSQUE 17 


The servant returned an indifferent “ No.” Aziz was 
in despair. It was a servant whom he had forgotten to 
tip, and he could do nothing now because there were 
people in the hall. He was convinced that there was a 
message, and that the man was withholding it out of 
revenge. While they argued, the people came out. Both 
were ladies. Aziz lifted his hat. The first, who was in 
evening dress, glanced at the Indian and turned instinc- 
tively away. 

“Mrs. Lesley, it 1s a tonga,” she cried. 

“Ours?” enquired the second, also seeing Aziz, and 
doing likewise. 

“Take the gifts the gods provide, anyhow,” she 
screeched, and both jumped in. “O Tonga wallah, club, 
club. Why doesn’t the fool go?” 

“Go, I will pay you to-morrow,” said Aziz to the 
driver, and as they went off he called courteously, “ You 
are most welcome, ladies.”” They did not reply, being full 
of their own affairs. 

So it had come, the usual thing—just as Mahmoud Ali 
said. The inevitable snub—his bow ignored, his carriage 
taken. It might have been worse, for it comforted him 
somehow that Mesdames Callendar and Lesley should 
both be fat and weigh the tonga down behind. Beautiful 
women would have pained him. He turned to the ser- 
vant, gave him a couple of rupees, and asked again 
whether there was a message. The man, now very civil, 
returned the same answer. Major Callendar had driven 
away half an hour before. 

“ Saying nothing? ” 

He had as a matter of fact said, “Damn Aziz ’— 
words that the servant understood, but was too polite to 
repeat. One can tip too much as well as too little, indeed 
the coin that buys the exact truth has not yet been 
minted. 

“Then I will write him a letter.” 

He was offered the use of the house, but was too digni- 


18 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


fied to enter it. Paper and ink were brought on to the 
verandah. He began: “ Dear Sir,—At your express com- 
mand I have hastened as a subordinate should ” and 
then stopped. “‘ Tell him I have called, that is sufficient,’ 
he said, tearing the protest up. , ‘‘ Here is my card. Call 
me a tonga.” 

“ Huzoor, all are at the club.” 

“Then telephone for one down to the railway station.” 
And since the man hastened to do this he said, 
“ Enough, enough, I prefer to walk.” He commandeered 
a match and lit acigarette. These attentions,.though pur- 
chased, soothed him. They would last as long as he had 
rupees, which is something. But to shake the dust of 
Anglo-India off his feet! To escape from the net and be 
back among manners and gestures that he knew! He 
began a walk, an unwonted exercise. 

He was an athletic little man, daintily put together, but 
really very strong. Nevertheless walking fatigued him, 
as it fatigues everyone in India except the new-comer. 
There is something hostile in that soil. It either yields, 
and the foot sinks into a depression, or else it is unex- 
pectedly rigid and sharp, pressing stones or crystals 
against the tread. A series of these little surprises ex- 
hausts; and he was wearing pumps, a poor preparation 
for any country. At the edge of the civil station he 
turned into a mosque to rest. 

He had always liked this mosque. It was gracious, 
and the arrangement pleased him. The courtyard—en- 
tered through a ruined gate—contained an ablution tank 
of fresh clear water, which was always in motion, being 
indeed part of a conduit that supplied the city. The 
courtyard was paved with broken slabs. The covered part 
of the mosque was deeper than is usual; its effect was 
that of an English parish church whose side has been 
taken out. Where he sat, he looked into three arcades 
whose darkness was illuminated by a small hanging lamp 
and by the moon. The front—in full moonlight—had 





MOSQUE 19 


the appearance of marble, and the ninety-nine names of 
God on the frieze stood out black, as the frieze stood out 
white against the sky. The contest between this dualism 
and the contention of shadows within pleased Aziz, and 
he tried to symbolize the whole into some truth of religion 
or love. A mosque by winning his approval let loose his 
imagination. The temple of another creed, Hindu, Chris- 
tian, or Greek, would have bored him and failed to 
awaken his sense of beauty. Here was Islam, his own 
country, more than a Faith, more thai a battle-cry, more, 
much more... Islam, an attitude towards life both 
exquisite and durable, where his body and his thoughts 
found their home. 

His seat was the low wall that bounded the courtyard 
on the left. The ground fell away beneath him towards 
the city, visible as a blur of trees, and in the stillness he 
heard many small sounds. On the right, over in the 
club, the English community contributed an amateur or- 
chestra. Elsewhere some Hindus were drumming—he 
knew they were Hindus, because the rhythm was uncon- 
genial to him,—and others were bewailing a corpse—he 
knew whose, having certified it in the afternoon. There 
were owls, the Punjab mail . . . and flowers smelt de- 
liciously in the station-master’s garden. But the mosque 
—that alone signified, and he returned to it from the com- 
plex appeal of the night, and decked it with meanings the 
builder had never intended. Some day he too would build 
a mosque, smaller than this but in perfect taste, so that 
all who passed by should experience the happiness he felt 
now. And near it, under a low dome, should be his tomb, 
with a Persian inscription: 

Alas, without me for thousands of years 
The Rose will blossom and the Spring will bloom, 


But those who have secretly understood my heart— 
They will approach and visit the grave where I lie. 


He had seen the quatrain on the tomb of a Deccan king, 
and regarded it as profound philosophy—he always held 


20 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


pathos to be profound. The secret understanding of the 
heart! He repeated the phrase with tears in his eyes, and 
as he did so one of the pillars of the mosque seemed to 
quiver. It swayed in the gloom and detached itself. Be- 
lief in ghosts ran in his blood, but he sat firm. Another 
pillar moved, a third, and then an Englishwoman stepped 
out into the moonlight. Suddenly he was furiously angry 
and shouted: “Madam! Madam! Madam!” 

“Oh! Oh!” the woman gasped. 

“Madam, this is a mosque, you have no right here at 
all; you should have taken off your shoes; this is a holy 
place for Moslems.” 

‘““T have taken them off.” 

“You have?” 

“T left them at the entrance.” 

“Then J ask your pardon.” 

Still startled, the woman moved out, keeping the ablu- 
tion-tank between them. He called after her, “ I am truly 
sorry for speaking.” 

“Yes, I was right, was I not? If I remove my shoes, 
I am allowed?” 

‘““Of course, but so few ladies take the trouble, espe- 
cially if thinking no one is there to see.” 

“That makes no difference. God is here.” 

“Madam!” 

“Please let me go.” 

“Oh, can I do you some service now or at any time? ” 

“No, thank you, really none—good night.” 

“May I know your name? ”’ 

She was now in the shadow of the gateway, so that 
he could not see her face, but she saw his, and she said 
with a change of voice, “ Mrs. Moore.” 

“Mrs. Advancing, he found that she was old. 
A fabric bigger than the mosque fell to pieces, and he 
did not know whether he was glad or sorry. She was 
older than Hamidullah Begum, with a red face and white 
hair. Her voice had deceived him, 





MOSQUE ot 


“Mrs. Moore, I am afraid I startled you. I shal) tell 
my community—our friends—about you. That God is » 
here—very good, very fine indeed. I think you are newly 
arrived in India.” 

“ Yes—how did you know? ” 

““ By the way you address me. No, but can I call you 
eecarnareci7 

“T have only come from the club. They are doing a 
play that I have seen in London, and it was so hot.” 

“What: was the name of the play?” 

“Cousin Kate.” 

“TY think you ought not to walk at night alone, Mrs. 
Moore. There are bad characters about and leopards 
may come across from the Marabar Hills. Snakes also.” 

She exclaimed ; she had forgotten the snakes. 

“For example, a six-spot beetle,” he continued. “ You 
pick it up, it bites, you die.” 

“But you walk about yourself.” 

‘Oh, I am used to it.” 

“Used to snakes?” 

They both laughed. “ I’ma doctor,” he said. “ Snakes 
don’t dare bite me.” They sat down side by side in the 
entrance, and slipped on their evening shoes. ‘“ Please 
may I ask you a question now? Why do you come to 
India at this time of year, just as the cold weather is 
ending? ” 

“I intended to start earlier, but there was an unavoid- 
able delay.” 

“Tt will soon be so unhealthy for you! And why ever 
do you come to Chandrapore?”’ 

“To visit my son. He is the City Magistrate here.” 

“Oh no, excuse me, that is quite impossible. Our City 
Magistrate’s name is Mr. Heaslop. I know him intt- 
mately.”’ 

“He's my son all the same,” she said, smiling. 

* But, Mrs. Moore, how can he be?”’ 

“I was married twice.” 


22 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“Yes, now I see, and your first husband died.” 

“ He did, and so did my second husband.” 

“Then we are in the same box,” he said cryptically. 
“ Then is the City Magistrate the entire of your family 
now?” 

‘““No, there are the younger ones—Ralph and Stella 
in England.” 

“And the gentleman here, is he Ralph and Stella’s 
half-brother ?”’ 

“ Quite right.” 

“Mrs. Moore, this is all extremely strange, because 
like yourself I have also two sons and a daughter. Is not 
this the same box with a vengeance? ” 

“What are their names? Not also Ronny, Ralph, and 
Stella, surely? ” 

The suggestion delighted him. ‘“‘ No, indeed. How 
funny it sounds! Their names are quite different and 
will surprise you. Listen, please. I am about to tell 
you my children’s names. The first is called Ahmed, the 
second is called Karim, the third—she is the eldest— 
Jamila. Three children are enough. Do not you agree 
with mer ” 

éé I dos? 

They were both silent for a little, thinking of their 
respective families. She sighed and rose to go. 

“Would you care to see over the Minto Hospital one 
morning?” he enquired. “I have nothing else to offer 
at Chandrapore.”’ 

“Thank you, I have seen it already, or I should have 
liked to come with you very much.” 

“‘T suppose the Civil Surgeon took you.” 

“Yes, and Mrs. Callendar.”’ 

His voice altered. ‘“‘ Ah! <A very charming lady.” 

“Possibly, when one knows her better.”’ 

“What? What? You didn’t like her?” 

“ She was certainly intending to be kind, but I did not 
find her exactly charming.” 


MOSQUE 23 


He burst out with: “She has just taken my tonga 
without my permission—do you call that being charm- 
ing?—and Major Callendar interrupts me night after 
night from where I am dining with my friends and I go 
at once, breaking up a most pleasant entertainment, and 
he is not there and not even a message. Is this charm- 
ing, pray? But what does it matter? I can do nothing 
and he knows it. I am just a subordinate, my time is 
of no value, the verandah is good enough for an Indian, 
yes, yes, let him stand, and Mrs. Callendar takes my 
carriage and cuts me dead... .” 

She listened. 

He was excited partly by his wrongs, but much more 
by the knowledge that someone sympathized with them. 
It was this that led him to repeat, exaggerate, contradict. 
She had proved her sympathy by criticizing her fellow- 
countrywoman to him, but even earlier he had known. 
The flame that not even beauty can nourish was spring- 
ing up, and though his words were querulous his heart 
began to glow secretly. Presently it burst into speech. 

“You understand me, you know what others feel. Oh, 
if others resembled you! ”’ 

Rather surprised, she replied: “I don’t think I under- 
stand people very well. I only know whether I like or 
dislike them.” 

“Then you are an Oriental.” 

She accepted his escort back to the club, and said at 
the gate that she wished she was a member, so that she 
could have asked him in. 

“Indians are not allowed into the Chandrapore Club 
even as guests,” he said simply. He did not expatiate 
on his wrongs now, being happy. As he strolled down- 
hill beneath the lovely moon, and again saw the lovely 
mosque, he seemed to own the land as much as anyone 
owned it. What did it matter if a few flabby Hindus 
had preceded him there, and a few chilly English suc- 
ceeded? 


24 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


CHAPTER III 


HE third act of Cousin Kate was well advanced by 
the time Mrs. Moore re-entered the club. Windows 
were barred, lest the servants should see their mem-sahibs 
acting, and the heat was consequently immense. One 
electric fan revolved like a wounded bird, another was 
out of order. Disinclined to return to the audience, she 
went into the billiard room, where she was greeted by “ I 
want to see the real India,’ and her appropriate life 
came back with a rush. This was Adela Quested, the 
queer, cautious girl whom Ronny had commissioned her 
to bring from England, and Ronny was her son, also 
cautious, whom Miss Quested would probably though not 
certainly marry, and she herself was an elderly lady. 

““T want to see it too, and I only wish we could. Ap: 
parently the Turtons will arrange something for next 
Tuesday.” 

“ Tt’ll end in an elephant ride, it always does. Look at 
this evening. Cousin Kate! Imagine, Cousin Kate! 
But where have you been off to? Did you succeed in 
catching the moon in the Ganges? ”’ 

The two ladies had happened, the night before, to see 
the moon’s reflection in a distant channel of the stream. 
The water had drawn it out, so that it had seemed larger 
than the real moon, and brighter, which had pleased them. 

“‘T went to the mosque, but I did not catch the moon.” 

“The angle would have altered—she rises later.” 

“ Later and later,” yawned Mrs. Moore, who was tired 
after her walk. “ Let me think—we don’t see the other 
side of the moon out here, no.” 

“Come, India’s not as bad as all that,’”’ said a pleasant 
voice. “ Other side of the earth, if you like, but we stick 
to the same old moon.” Neither of them knew the 
speaker nor did they ever see him again. He passed with 


MOSQUE 25 


his friendly word through red-brick pillars into the dark- 
ness. 

. ‘We aren’t even seeing the other side of the world; 
that’s our complaint,’”’ said Adela. Mrs. Moore agreed; 
she too was disappointed at the dullness of their new life. 
They had made such a romantic voyage across the Medi- 
terranean and through the sands of Egypt to the harbour 
of Bombay, to find only a gridiron of bungalows at the 
end of it. But she did not take the disappointment as 
seriously as Miss Quested, for the reason that she was 
forty years older, and had learnt that Life never gives 
us what we want at the moment that we consider appro- 
priate. Adventures do occur, but not punctually. She 
said again that she hoped that something interesting 
would be arranged for next Tuesday. 

“Have a drink,” said another pleasant voice. ‘ Mrs. 
Moore—Miss Quested—have a drink, have two drinks.” 
They knew who it was this time—the Collector, Mr. 
Turton, with whom they had dined. Like themselves, he 
had found the atmosphere of Cousin Kate too hot. 
Ronny, he told them, was stage-managing in place of 
Major Callendar, whom some native subordinate or other 
had let down, and doing it very well; then he turned to 
Ronny’s other merits, and in quiet, decisive tones said 
much that was flattering. It wasn’t that the young man 
was particularly good at the games or the lingo, or 
that he had much notion of the Law, but—apparently a 
large but—Ronny was dignified. 

Mrs. Moore was surprised to learn this, dignity not 
being a quality with which any mother credits her son. 
Miss Quested learnt it with anxiety, for she had not de- 
cided whether she liked dignified men. She tried indeed 
to discuss this point with Mr. Turton, but he silenced her 
with a good-humoured motion of his hand, and continued 
what he had come to say. ‘‘ The long and the short of 
it is Heaslop’s a sahib; he’s the type we want, he’s one 
of us,” and another civilian who was leaning over the 


26 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


billiard table said, ‘‘ Hear, hear!’’ The matter was thus 
placed beyond doubt, and the Collector passed on, for 
other duties called him. 

Meanwhile the performance ended, and the amateur 
orchestra played the National Anthem. Conversation and 
billiards stopped, faces stiffened. It was the Anthem of 
the Army of Occupation. It reminded every member of 
the club that he or she was British and in exile. It pro- 
duced a little sentiment and a useful accession of will- 
power. The meagre tune, the curt series of demands on 
Jehovah, fused into a prayer unknown in England, and 
though they perceived neither Royalty nor Deity they 
did perceive something, they were strengthened to resist 
another day. ‘Then they poured out, offering one an- 
other drinks. 

“* Adela, have a drink; mother, a drink.” 

They refused—they were weary of drinks—and Miss 
Quested, who always said exactly what was in her mind, 
announced anew that she was desirous of seeing the real 
India. 

Ronny was in high spirits. The request struck him as 
comic, and he called out to another passer-by: “ Fielding! 
how’s one to see the real India?” 

“Try seeing Indians,” the man answered, and van- 
ished. 

“Who was that? ” 

“Our schoolmaster—Government College.” 

“As if one could avoid seeing them,” sighed Mrs. 
Lesley. 

“T’ve avoided,’ said Miss Quested. “ Excepting my 
own servant, I’ve scarcely spoken to an Indian since 
landing.” 

“Oh, lucky you.” 

“But I want to see them.” 

She became the centre of an amused group of ladies. 
One said, “ Wanting to see Indians! How new that 
sounds!” Another, ‘ Natives! why, fancy!” <A third, 


MOSQUE 27 


more serious, said, ‘“‘ Let me explain. Natives don’t re- 
spect one any the more after meeting one, you see.” 

“That occurs after so many meetings.” 

But the lady, entirely stupid and friendly, continued: 
“What I mean is, I was a nurse before my marriage, and 
came across them a great deal, so I know. I really do 
know the truth about Indians. A most unsuitable posi- 
tion for any Englishwoman—lI was a nurse in a Native 
State. One’s only hope was to hold sternly aloof.” 

‘““Even from one’s patients?” 

“Why, the kindest thing one can do to a native is to 
let him die,” said Mrs. Callendar. 

““ How if he went to heaven?” asked Mrs. Moore, with 
a gentle but crooked smile. 

“He can go where he likes as long as he doesn’t come 
near me. They give me the creeps.” 

“As a matter of fact I have thought what you were 
saying about heaven, and that is why I am against Mis- 
sionaries,” said the lady who had been a nurse. ‘‘I am 
all for Chaplains, but all against Missionaries. Let me 
explain.” 

But before she could do so, the Collector intervened. 

“ Do you really want to meet the Aryan Brother, Miss 
Quested? That can be easily fixed up. I didn’t realize 
he’d amuse you.” He thought a moment. “ You can 
practically see any type you like. Take your choice. I 
know the Government people and the landowners, Heaslop 
here can get hold of the barrister crew, while if you want 
to specialize on education, we can come down on Field- 
ing.” 

“I’m tired of seeing picturesque figures pass before 
me as a frieze,” the girl explained. ‘“‘ It was wonderful 
when we landed, but that superficial glamour soon 
goes.” 

Her impressions were of no interest to the Collector; 
he was only concerned to give her a good time. Would 
she like a Bridge Party? He explained to her what that 


28 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


was—not the game, but a party to bridge the gulf be- 
tween East and West; the expression was his own in- 
vention, and amused all who heard it. 

“T only want those Indians whom you come across 
socially—as your friends.” 

“Well, we don’t come across them socially,” he said, 
laughing. “ They’re full of all the virtues, but we don’t, 
and it’s now eleven-thirty, and too late to go into the 
reasons.” 

“ Miss Quested, what a name!” remarked Mrs. Turton 
to her husband as they drove away. She had not taken 
to the new young lady, thinking her ungracious and 
cranky. She trusted that she hadn’t been brought out 
to marry nice little Heaslop, though it looked like it. 
Her husband agreed with her in his heart, but he never 
spoke against an Englishwoman if he could avoid doing 
so, and he only said that Miss Quested naturally made 
mistakes. He added: “ India does wonders for the judg- 
ment, especially during the hot weather; it has even done 
wonders for Fielding.” Mrs. Turton closed her eyes at 
this name and remarked that Mr. Fielding wasn’t pukka, 
and had better marry Miss Quested, for she wasn’t pukka, 
Then they reached their bungalow, low and enormous, 
the oldest and most uncomfortable bungalow in the civil 
station, with a sunk soup plate of a lawn, and they had 
one drink more, this time of barley water, and went to 
bed. Their withdrawal from the club had broken up 
the evening, which, like all gatherings, had an official 
tinge. A community that bows the knee to a Viceroy 
and believes that the divinity that hedges a king can be 
transplanted, must feel some reverence for any viceregal 
substitute. At Chandrapore the Turtons were little gods; 
soon they would retire to some suburban villa, and die 
exiled from glory. 

“Tt’s decent of the Burra Sahib,” chattered Ronny, 
much gratified at the civility that had been shown to his 
guests. ‘“ Do you know he’s never given a Bridge Party 


MOSQUE 29 


before? Coming on top of the dinner too! I wish I 
could have arranged something myself, but when you 
know the natives better you'll realize it’s easier for the 
Burra Sahib than for me. They know him—they know 
he can’t be fooled—I’'m still fresh comparatively. No one 
can even begin to think of knowing this country until 
he has been in it twenty years.—Hullo, the mater! 
Here’s your cloak.—Well: for an example of the mis- 
takes one makes. Soon after I came out I asked one of 
the Pleaders to have a smoke with me—only a cigarette, 
mind. I found afterwards that he had sent touts all over 
the bazaar to announce the fact—told all the litigants, 
‘Oh, you’d better come to my Vakil Mahmoud Ali—he’s 
in with the City Magistrate.’ Ever since then I’ve 
dropped on him in Court as hard as I could. It’s taught 
me a lesson, and I hope him.” 

“Tsn’t the lesson that you should invite all the Pleaders 
to have a smoke with you?” 

“Perhaps, but time’s limited and the flesh weak. I 
prefer my smoke at the club amongst my own sort, I’m 
afraid.”’ 

“Why not ask the Pleaders to the club? ” Miss Quested 
persisted. 

“Not allowed.” He was pleasant and patient, and 
evidently understood why she did not understand. He 
implied that he had once been as she, though not for 
long. Going to the verandah, he called firmly to the 
moon. His sais answered, and without lowering his head, 
he ordered his trap to be brought round. 

Mrs. Moore, whom the club had stupefied, woke up 
outside. She watched the moon, whose radiance stained 
with primrose the purple of the surrounding sky. In 
England the moon had seemed dead and alien; here she 
was caught in the shawl of night together with earth and 
all the other stars. A sudden sense of unity, of kinship 
with the heavenly bodies, passed into the old woman and 
out, like water through a tank, leaving a strange fresh- 


30 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


ness behind. She did not dislike Cousin Kate or the 
National Anthem, but their note had died into a new one, 
just as cocktails and cigars had died into invisible flowers. 
When the mosque, long and domeless, gleamed at the turn 
of the road, she exclaimed, “‘ Oh, yes—that’s where I got 
to—that’s where I’ve been.” 

‘“‘ Been there when? ” asked her son. 

““ Between the acts.” 

“ But, mother, you can’t do that sort of thing.” 

Can't mother’ she replied: 

“No, really not in this country. It’s not done. 
There’s the danger from snakes for one thing. ‘They are 
apt to lie out in the evening.” 

“‘ Ah yes, so the young man there said.” 

“This sounds very romantic,” said Miss Quested, who 
was exceedingly fond of Mrs. Moore, and was glad she 
should have had this little escapade. ‘“‘ You meet a young 
man in a mosque, and then never let me know!” 

‘““T was going to tell you, Adela, but something changed 
the conversation and I forgot. My memory grows de- 
plorable.” 

Peavy as hesnicer © 

She paused, then said emphatically: ‘‘ Very nice.” 

“Who was he?”’ Ronny enquired. 

“A doctor. I don’t know his name.” 

“A doctor? I know of no young doctor in Chandra- 
pore. How odd! What was he like?” 

“Rather small, with a little moustache and quick eyes. 
He called out to me when I was in the dark part of the 
mosque—about my shoes. That was how we began talk- 
ing. He was afraid I had them on, but I remembered 
luckily. He told me about his children, and then we 
walked back to the club. He knows you well.” 

““T wish you had pointed him out to me. I can’t make 
put who he is.” 

“He didn’t come into the club. He said he wasn’t 
allowed to.” 


MOSQUE 31 


Thereupon the truth struck him, and he cried, “ Oh, 
good gracious! Not a Mohammedan? Why ever didn’t 
you tell me you'd been talking to a native? I was going 
all wrong.” 

“A Mohammedan! How perfectly magnificent!” ex- 
claimed Miss Quested. “ Ronny, isn’t that like your 
mother? While we talk about seeing the real India, she 
goes and sees it, and then forgets she’s seen it.” 

But Ronny was ruffled. From his mother’s descrip- 
tion he had thought the doctor might be young Muggins 
from over the Ganges, and had brought out all the com- 
radely emotions. What a mix-up! Why hadn’t she indi- 
cated by the tone of her voice that she was talking about 
an Indian? Scratchy and dictatorial, he began to ques 
tion her. “He called to you in the mosque, did he? 
How? Impudently? What was he doing there himself 
at that time of night ?—No, it’s not their prayer time.” — 
This in answer to a suggestion of Miss Quested’s, who 
showed the keenest interest. ‘So he called to you over 
your shoes. Then it was impudence. It’s an old trick. 
I wish you had had them on.” 

“T think it was impudence, but I don’t know about a 
trick,” said Mrs. Moore. ‘“ His nerves were all on edge 
—TI could tell from his voice. As soon as I answered he 
altered.” 

“You oughtn’t to have answered.” 

“ Now look here,” said the logical girl, “ wouldn’t you 
expect a Mohammedan to answer if you asked him to 
take off his hat in church? ” 

“It’s different, it’s different; you don’t understand.” 

“IT know I don’t, and I want to. What is the differ- 
ence, please re’ 

He wished she wouldn’t interfere. His mother did not 
signify—she was just a globe-trotter, a temporary escort, 
who could retire to England with what impressions she 
chose. But Adela, who meditated spending her life in 
the country, was a more serious matter; it would be tire- 


32 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


some if she started crooked over the native question. 
Pulling up the mare, he said, “ There’s your Ganges.” 

Their attention was diverted. Below them a radiance 
had suddenly appeared. It belonged neither to water nor 
moonlight, but stood like a luminous sheaf upon the fields 
of darkness. He told them that it was where the new 
sand-bank was forming, and that the dark ravelled bit 
at the top was the sand, and that the dead bodies floated 
down that way from Benares, or would if the crocodiles 
let them. “It’s not much of a dead body that gets down 
to Chandrapore.” 

“Crocodiles down in it too, how terrible!’ his mother 
murmured. The young people glanced at each other and 
smiled ; it amused them when the old lady got these gentle 
creeps, and harmony was restored between them conse- 
quently. She continued: “‘ What a terrible river! what a 
wonderful river!’ and sighed. The radiance was already 
altering, whether through shifting of the moon or of the 
sand; soon the bright sheaf would be gone, and a circlet, 
itself to alter, be burnished upon the streaming void. The 
women discussed whether they would wait for the change 
or not, while the silence broke into patches of unquietness 
and the mare shivered. On her account they did not wait, 
but drove on to the City Magistrate’s bungalow, where 
Miss Quested went to bed, and Mrs. Moore had a short 
interview with her son. 

He wanted to enquire about the Mohammedan doctor 
in the mosque. It was his duty to report suspicious char- 
acters and conceivably it was some disreputable hakim 
who had prowled up from the bazaar. When she told 
him that it was someone connected with the Minto Hos- 
pital, he was relieved, and said that the fellow’s name 
must be Aziz, and that he was quite all right, nothing 
against him at all. 

“ Aziz! what a charming name!” 

“So you and he Hee a talk. Did you gather he was 
well disposed? ”’ 


MOSQUE a3 


Ignorant of the force of this question, she replied, 
“Yes, quite, after the first moment.” 

““T meant, generally. Did he seem to tolerate us—the 
brutal conqueror, the sundried bureaucrat, that sort of 
thing?” 

“Oh, yes, I think so, except the Callendars—he doesn’t 
care for the Callendars at all.”’ 

“Oh. So he told you that, did he? The Major will 
be interested. I wonder what was the aim of the remark.” 

“Ronny, Ronny! you’re never going to pass it on to 
Major Callendar? ” 

eeyesprather.. I must, infact!’ 

“ But, my dear boy fi 

“Tf the Major heard I was disliked by any native 
subordinate of mine, I should expect him to pass it on 
devant 

“But, my dear boy—a private conversation!” 

“‘ Nothing’s private in India. Aziz knew that when he 
spoke out, so don’t you worry. He had some motive 
in what he said. My personal belief is that the remark 
wasn't true.” 

“ How not true? ”’ 

“He abused the Major in order to impress you.” 

“T don’t know what you mean, dear.” 

“It’s the educated native’s latest dodge. They used 
to cringe, but the younger generation believe in a show of 
manly independence. They think it will pay better with 
the itinerant M.P. But whether the native swaggers or 
cringes, there’s always something behind every remark he 
makes, always something, and if nothing else he’s trying 
to increase his izzat—in plain Anglo-Saxon, to score. Of 
course there are exceptions.” 

“You never used to judge people like this at home.” 

“India isn’t home,” he retorted, rather rudely, but in 
order to silence her he had been using phrases and argu- 
ments that he had picked up from older officials, and he 
did not feel quite sure of himself. When he said “of 





34 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


course there are exceptions ’ he was quoting Mr. Turton, 
while “ increasing the izzat ’? was Major Callendar’s own. 
The phrases worked and were in current use at the club, 
but she was rather clever at detecting the first from the 
second hand, and might press him for definite examples. 

She only said, “I can’t deny that what you say sounds 
very sensible, but you really must not hand on to Major 
Callendar anything I have told you about Doctor Aziz.” 

He felt disloyal to his caste, but he promised, adding, 
“Tn return please don’t talk about Aziz to Adela.” 

“ Not talk about him? Why?” 

“There you go again, mother—I really can’t explain 
every thing. I don’t want Adela to be worried, that’s the 
fact; she’ll begin wondering whether we treat the natives 
properly, and all that sort of nonsense.” 

“ But she came out to be worried—that’s exactly why 
she’s here. She discussed it all on the boat. We had a 
long talk when we went on shore at Aden. She knows 
you in play, as she put it, but not in work, and she felt 
she must come and look round, before she decided—and 
before you decided. She is very, very fair-minded.” 

“I know,” he said dejectedly. 

The note of anxiety in his voice made her feel that he 
was still a little boy, who must have what he liked, so she 
promised to do as he wished, and they kissed good night. 
He had not forbidden her to think about Aziz, however, 
and she did this when she retired to her room. In the 
light of her son’s comment she reconsidered the scene 
at the mosque, to see whose impression was correct. Yes, 
it could be worked into quite an unpleasant scene. The 
doctor had begun by bullying her, had said Mrs. Cal- 
lendar was nice, and then—finding the ground safe—had 
changed; he had alternately whined over his grievances 
and patronized her, had run a dozen ways in a single 
sentence, had been unreliable, inyuisitive, vain. Yes, it 
was all true, but how false as a summary of the man; 
the essential life of him had been slain. 


MOSQUE 35 


Going to hang up her cloak, she found that the tip of 
the peg was occupied by a small wasp. She had known 
this wasp or his relatives by day; they were not as Eng- 
lish wasps, but had long yellow legs which hung down 
behind when they flew. Perhaps he mistook the peg for 
a branch—no Indian animal has any sense of an interior. 
Bats, rats, birds, insects will as soon nest inside a house 
as out; it is to them a normal growth of the eternal 
jungle, which alternately produces houses trees, houses 
trees. There he clung, asleep, while jackals in the plain 
bayed their desires and mingled with the percussion of 
drums. 

“Pretty dear,’ said Mrs. Moore to the wasp. He did 
not wake, but her voice floated out, to swell the night’s 
uneasiness, 


CHAPTER IV 


HE Collector kept his word. Next day he issued in- 
vitation cards to numerous Indian gentlemen in the 
neighbourhood, stating that he would be at home in the 
garden of the club between the hours of five and seven 
on the following Tuesday, also that Mrs. Turton would 
be glad to receive any ladies of their families who were 
out of purdah. His action caused much excitement and 
was discussed in several worlds. 

“Tt is owing to orders from the L.G.,’’ was Mahmoud 
Ali’s explanation. ‘‘ Turton would never do this unless 
compelled. Those high officials are different—they sym- 
pathize, the Viceroy sympathizes, they would have us 
treated properly. But they come too seldom and live too 
far away. Meanwhile ‘3 

“Tt is easy to sympathize at a distance,” said an old 
gentleman with a beard. “I value more the kind word 
that is spoken close to my ear. Mr. Turton has spoken 
it, from whatever cause. He speaks, we hear. I do not 





36 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


see why we need discuss it further.” Quotations fol- 
lowed from the Koran. 

“We have not all your sweet nature, Nawab Bahadur, 
nor your learning.” 

“The Lieutenant-Governor may be my very good 
friend, but I give him no trouble—How do you do, 
Nawab Bahadur ?—Quite well, thank you, Sir Gilbert; 
how are you?—And all is over. But I can be a thorn in 
Mr. Turton’s flesh, and if he asks me I accept the invi- 
tation. I shall come in from Dilkusha specially, though 
I have to postpone other business.”’ 

“You will make yourself chip,” 
black man. ; 

There was a stir of disapproval. Who was this ill-bred 
upstart, that he should criticize the leading Mohammedan 
landowner of the district? Mahmoud Ali, though sharing 
his opinion, felt bound to oppose it. “ Mr. Ram Chand!” 
he said, swaying forward stiffly with his hands on his 
hips. 

“Mr. Mahmoud Ali!” 

“Mr. Ram Chand, the Nawab Bahadur can decide 
what is cheap without our valuation, I think.” 

“T do not expect I shall make myself cheap,” said 
the Nawab Bahadur to Mr. Ram Chand, speaking very 
pleasantly, for he was aware that the man had been im- 
polite and he desired to shield him from the consequences. 
It had passed through his mind to reply, “ I expect I shall 
make myself cheap,” but he rejected this as the less cour- 
teous alternative. “I do not see why we should make 
ourselves cheap. I do not see why we should. The invi- 
tation is worded very graciously.” Feeling that he could 
not further decrease the social gulf between himself and 
his auditors, he sent his elegant grandson, who was in 
attendance on him, to fetch his car. When it came, he 
repeated all that he had said before, though at greater 
length, ending up with “ Till Tuesday, then, gentlemen 


suddenly said a little 


MOSQUE 37 


all, when I hope we may meet in the flower gardens of the 
club.” 

This opinion carried great weight. The Nawab 
Bahadur was a big proprietor and a philanthropist, a 
man of benevolence and decision. His character among 
all the communities in the province stood high. He was a 
straightforward enemy and a staunch friend, and his hos- 
pitality was proverbial. “Give, do not lend; after death 
who will thank you?”’ was his favourite remark. He held 
it a disgrace to die rich. When such a man was prepared 
to motor twenty-five miles to shake the Collector’s hand, 
the entertainment took another aspect. For he was not 
like some eminent men, who give out that they will come, 
and then fail at the last moment, leaving the small fry 
floundering. If he said he would come, he would come, 
he would never deceive his supporters. The gentlemen 
whom he had lectured now urged one another to attend 
the party, although convinced at heart that his advice was 
unsound, 

He had spoken in the little room near the Courts where 
the pleaders waited for clients; clients, waiting for plead- 
ers, sat in the dust outside. These had not received a 
card from Mr. Turton. And there were circles even be- 
yond these—people who wore nothing but a loincloth, 
people who wore not even that, and spent their lives in 
knocking two sticks together before a scarlet doll— 
humanity grading and drifting beyond the educated 
vision, until no earthly invitation can embrace it. 

All invitations must proceed from heaven perhaps; per- 
haps it is futile for men to initiate their own unity, they 
do but widen the gulfs between them by the attempt. So 
at all events thought old Mr. Graysford and young Mr. 
Sorley, the devoted missionaries who lived out beyond 
the slaughterhouses, always travelled third on the rail- 
ways, and never came up to the club. In our Father’s 
house are many mansions, they taught, and there alone 


38 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


will the incompatible multitudes of mankind be welcomed 
and soothed. Not one shall be turned away by the serv- 
ants on that verandah, be he black or white, not one 
shall be kept standing who approaches with a loving heart. 
And why should the divine hospitality cease here? Con- 
sider, with all reverence, the monkeys. May there not be 
a mansion for the monkeys also? Old Mr. Graysford 
said No, but young Mr. Sorley, who was advanced, said 
Yes; he saw no reason why monkeys should not have 
their collateral share of bliss, and he had sympathetic dis- 
cussions about them with his Hindu friends. And the 
jackals? Jackals were indeed less to Mr. Sorley’s mind, 
but he admitted that the mercy of God, being infinite, may 
well embrace all mammals. And the wasps? He became 
uneasy during the descent to wasps, and was apt to change 
the conversation. And oranges, cactuses, crystals and 
mud? and the bacteria inside, Mr. Sorley? No, no, this 1s 
going too far. We must exclude someone from our 
gathering, or we shall be left with nothing. 


CHAPTER V 


HE Bridge Party was not a success—at least it was 

not what Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested were accus- 

tomed to consider a successful party. They arrived early, 

since it was given in their honour, but most of the Indian 

guests had arrived even earlier, and stood massed at the 
farther side of the tennis lawns, doing nothing. 

“Tt is only just five,’ said Mrs. Turton. ‘“ My hus- 
band will be up from his office in a moment and start the 
thing. I have no idea what we have to do. It’s the first 
time we’ve ever given a party like this at the club. Mr. 
Heaslop, when I’m dead and gone will you give parties 
like this? It’s enough to make the old type of Burra 
Sahib turn in his grave.” 

Ronny laughed deferentially. “ You wanted some 


MOSQUE 39 


thing not picturesque and we've provided it,” he re- 
marked to Miss Quested. “What do you think of the 
Aryan Brother in a topi and spats?” 

Neither she nor his mother answered. They were 
gazing rather sadly over the tennis lawn. No, it was not 
picturesque; the East, abandoning its secular magnifi- 
cence, was descending into a valley whose farther side no 
man can see. 

“The great point to remember is that no one who’s 
here matters; those who matter don’t come. Isn’t that 
so, Mrs. Turton? ” 

“ Absolutely true,” said the great lady, leaning back. 
She was “saving herself up,’ as she called it—not for 
anything that would happen that afternoon or even that 
week, but for some vague future occasion when a high 
official might come along and tax her social strength. 
Most of her public appearances were marked by this air 
of reserve. 

Assured of her approbation, Ronny continued: ‘“ The 
educated Indians will be no good to us if there’s a row, 
it’s simply not worth while conciliating them, that’s why 
they don’t matter. Most of the people you see are sedi- 
tious at heart, and the rest ‘Id run squealing. The culti- 
vator—he’s another story. The Pathan—he’s a man if 
you like. But these people—don’t imagine they’re India.” 
He pointed to the dusky line beyond the court, and here 
and there it flashed a pince-nez or shuffled a shoe, as if 
aware that he was despising it. European costume had 
lighted like a leprosy. Few had yielded entirely, but none 
were untouched. There was a silence when he had fin- 
ished speaking, on both sides of the court; at least, more 
ladies joined the English group, but their words seemed 
to die as soon as uttered. Some kites hovered overhead, 
impartial, over the kites passed the mass of a vulture, and 
with an impartiality exceeding all, the sky, not deeply 
coloured but translucent, poured light from its whole 
circumference. It seemed unlikely that the series 


40 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


stopped here. Beyond the sky must not there be some- 
thing that overarches all the skies, more impartial even 
than they? Beyond which again... 

They spoke of Cousin Kate. 

They had tried to reproduce their own attitude to life 
upon the stage, and to dress up as the middle-class Eng- 
lish people they actually were. Next year they would do 
Quality Street or The Yeomen of the Guard. Save for 
this annual incursion, they left literature alone. The men 
had no time for it, the women did nothing that they could 
not share with the men. Their ignorance of the Arts was 
notable, and they lost no opportunity of proclaiming it 
to one another; it was the Public School attitude; flour- 
ishing more vigorously than it can yet hope to do in Eng- 
land. If Indians were shop, the Arts were bad form, and 
Ronny had repressed his mother when she enquired after 
his viola; a viola was almost a demerit, and certainly not 
the sort of instrument one mentioned in public. She 
noticed now how tolerant and conventional his judgments 
had become; when they had seen Cousin Kate in London 
together in the past, he had scorned it; now he pretended 
that it was a good play, in order to hurt nobody’s feelings. 
An “unkind notice” had appeared in the local paper, 
“the sort of thing no white man could have written,’ as 
Mrs. Lesley said. The play was praised, to be sure, and 
so were the stage management and the performance as a 
whole, but the notice contained the following sentence: 
““Miss Derek, though she charmingly looked her part, 
lacked the necessary experience, and occasionally forgot 
her words.” This tiny breath of genuine criticism had 
given deep offence, not indeed to Miss Derek, who was 
as hard as nails, but to her friends. Miss Derek did not 
belong to Chandrapore. She was stopping for a fort- 
night with the McBrydes, the police people, and she had 
been so good as to fill up a gap in the cast at the last 
moment. A nice impression of local hospitality she would 
carry away with her. 


MOSQUE 41 


“To work, Mary, to work,” cried the Collector, touch- 
ing his wife on the shoulder with a switch. 

Mrs. Turton got up awkwardly. ‘“ What do you want 
me to do? Oh, those purdah women! I never thought 
any would come. Oh dear!” 

A little group of Indian ladies had been gathering in a 
third quarter of the grounds, near a rustic summer-house 
in which the more timid of them had already taken refuge. 
The rest stood with their backs to the company and their 
faces pressed into a bank of shrubs. At a little distance 
stood their male relatives, watching the venture. The 
sight was significant: an island bared by the turning tide, 
and bound to grow. 

‘“T consider they ought to come over to me.” 

“Come along, Mary, get it over.” 

“T refuse to shake hands with any of the men, unless 
it has to be the Nawab Bahadur.” 

“Whom have we so far?”’ He glanced along the line. 
“Hm! h’m! much as one expected. We know why he’s 
here, I think—over that contract, and he wants to get the 
right side of me for Mohurram, and he’s the astrologer 
who wants to dodge the municipal building regulations, 
and he’s that Parsi, and he’s—Hullo! there he goes— 
smash into our hollyhocks. Pulled the left rein when he 
meant the right. All as usual.” 

“They ought never to have been allowed to drive in; 
it’s so bad for them,” said Mrs. Turton, who had at last 
begun her progress to the summer-house, accompanied by 
Mrs. Moore, Miss Quested, and a terrier. ‘“‘ Why they 
come at all I don’t know. They hate it as much as we 
do. Talk to Mrs. McBryde. Her husband made her give 
purdah parties until she struck.” 

“ This isn’t a purdah party,” corrected Miss Quested. 

“Oh, really,’ was the haughty rejoinder. 

“Do kindly tell us who these ladies are,’ asked Mrs. 
Moore. 

‘“You’re superior to them, anyway. Don’t forget that. 


42 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


You're superior to everyone in India except one or two 
of the Ranis, and they’re on an equality.” 

Advancing, she shook hands with the group and said a 
few words of welcome in Urdu. She had learnt the lingo, 
but only to speak to her servants, so she knew none of 
the politer forms and of the verbs only the imperative 
mood. As soon as her speech was over, she enquired of 
her companions, “Is that what you wanted?” 

‘““ Please tell these ladies that I wish we could speak 
their language, but we have only just come to their 
country.” 

“Perhaps we speak yours a little, 
said. 

“Why, fancy, she understands!” said Mrs. Turton. 

“Eastbourne, Piccadilly, High Park Corner,” said an- 
other of the ladies. 

“Oh yes, they’re English-speaking.”’ 

“ But now we can talk: how delightful!” cried Adela, 
her face lighting up. 

“She knows Paris also,” called one of the onlook- 
ers. 

“They pass Paris on the way, no doubt,” said Mrs. 
Turton, as if she was describing the movements of migra- 
tory birds. Her manner had grown more distant since 
she had discovered that some of the group was Western- 
ized, and might apply her own standards to her. 

“The shorter lady, she is my wife, she is Mrs. Bhatta- 
charya,” the onlooker explained. ‘ The taller lady, she 
is my sister, she is Mrs. Das.”’ 

The shorter and the taller ladies both adjusted their 
saris, and smiled. There was a curious uncertainty about 
their gestures, as if they sought for a new formula which 
neither East nor West could provide. When Mrs. Bhatta- 
charya’s husband spoke, she turned away from him, but 
she did not mind seeing the other men. Indeed all the 
ladies were uncertain, cowering, recovering, giggling, 
making tiny gestures of atonement or despair at all that 


93 


one of the ladies 


MOSQUE 43 


was said, and alternately fondling the terrier or shrinking 
from him. Miss Quested now had her desired oppor- 
tunity; friendly Indians were before her, and she tried 
to make them talk, but she failed, she strove in vain 
against the echoing walls of their civility. Whatever she 
said produced a murmur of deprecation, varying into a 
murmur of concern when she dropped her pocket-hand- 
kerchief. She tried doing nothing, to see what that pro- 
duced, and they too did nothing. Mrs. Moore was equally 
unsuccessful. Mrs. Turton waited for them with a de- 
tached expression; she had known what nonsense it all 
was from the first. 

When they took their leave, Mrs. Moore had an im- 
pulse, and said to Mrs. Bhattacharya, whose face she 
liked, “ I wonder whether you would allow us to call on 
you some day.” 

“When?” she replied, inclining charmingly. 

“Whenever is convenient.” 

“ All days are convenient.”’ 

PeUTsda yi. oi 

“Most certainly.” 

“We shall enjoy it greatly, it would be a real pleasure. 
What about the time?” 

* All hours.” 

“Tell us which you would prefer. We're quite 
strangers to your country; we don’t know when you 
have visitors,” said Miss Quested. 

Mrs. Bhattacharya seemed not to know either. Her 
gesture implied that she had known, since Thursdays 
began, that English ladies would come to see her on one 
of them, and so always stayed in. Everything pleased 
her, nothing surprised. She added, “ We leave for Cal- 
cutta to-day.” 

“Oh, do you?” said Adela, not at first seeing the im- 
plication. Then she cried, ‘Oh, but if you do we shall 
find you gone.” 

Mrs. Bhattacharya did not dispute it. But her husband 


44 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


called from the distance, “Yes, yes, you*come to wus 
Thursday.” 

“But you'll be in Calcutta.” 

“No, no, we shall not.’”’ He said something swiftly 
to his wife in Bengali. ‘“ We expect you Thursday.”’ 

“ Thursday. . .”’ the woman echoed. 

“You can’t have done such a dreadful thing as to put 
off going for our sake?” exclaimed Mrs, Moore. 

‘““No, of course not, we are not such people.’’ He was 
laughing. 

“T believe that you have. Oh, please—it distresses me 
beyond words.” 

Everyone was laughing now, but with no suggestion 
that they had blundered. A shapeless discussion occurred, 
during which Mrs. Turton retired, smiling to herself. 
The upshot was that they were to come Thursday, but 
early in the morning, so as to wreck the Bhattacharya 
plans as little as possible, and Mr. Bhattacharya would 
send his carriage to fetch them, with servants to point 
out the way. Did he know where they lived? Yes, of 
course he knew, he knew everything; and he laughed 
again, They left among a flutter of compliments and 
smiles, and three ladies, who had hitherto taken no part 
in the reception, suddenly shot out of the summer-house 
like exquisitely coloured swallows, and salaamed them. 

Meanwhile the Collector had been going his rounds. 
He made pleasant remarks and a few jokes, which were 
applauded lustily, but he knew something to the discredit 
of nearly every one of his guests, and was consequently 
perfunctory. When they had not cheated, it was bhang, 
women, or worse, and even the desirables wanted to 
get something out of him. He believed that a “ Bridge 
Party” did good rather than harm, or he would not 
have given one, but he was under no illusions, and at the 
proper moment he retired to the English side of the lawn. 
The impressions he left behind him were various. Many 
of the guests, especially the humbler and less Anglicized, 


MOSQUE 45 


were genuinely grateful. To be addressed by so high an 
official was a permanent asset. They did not mind how 
long they stood, or how little happened, and when seven 
o'clock struck, they had to be turned out. Others were 
grateful with more intelligence. The Nawab Bahadur, 
indifferent for himself and for the distinction with which 
he was greeted, was moved by the mere kindness that 
must have prompted the invitation. He knew the diff- 
culties. Hamidullah also thought that the Collector had 
played up well. But others, such as Mahmoud Ali, were 
cynical; they were firmly convinced that Turton had been 
made to give the party by his official superiors and was 
all the time consumed with impotent rage, and they in- 
fected some who were inclined to a healthier view. Yet 
even Mahmoud Ali was glad he had come. Shrines are 
fascinating, especially when rarely opened, and it amused 
him to note the ritual of the English club, and to carica- 
ture it afterwards to his friends. 

After Mr. Turton, the official who did his duty best 
was Mr. Fielding, the Principal of the little Government 
College. He knew little of the district and less against 
the inhabitants, so he was in a less cynical state of mind. 
Athletic and cheerful, he romped about, making numer- 
ous mistakes which the parents of his pupils tried to cover 
up, for he was popular among them. When the moment 
for refreshments came, he did not move back to the Eng- 
lish side, but burnt his mouth with gram. He talked to 
anyone and he ate anything. Amid much that was alien, 
he learnt that the two new ladies from England had been 
a great success, and that their politeness in wishing to be 
Mrs. Bhattacharya’s guests had pleased not only her but 
all Indians who heard of it. It pleased Mr. Fielding 
also. He scarcely knew the two new ladies, still he de- 
cided to tell them what pleasure they had given by their 
friendliness. 

He found the younger of them alone. She was looking 
through a nick in the cactus hedge at the distant Marabar 


46 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


Hills, which had crept near, as was their custom at sun- 
set; if the sunset had lasted long enough, they would 
have reached the town, but it was swift, being tropical. 
He gave her his information, and she was so much 
pleased and thanked him so heartily that he asked her 
and the other lady to tea. 

“Td like to come very much indeed, and so would 
Mrs. Moore, I know.” 

“Tm rather a hermit, you know.” 

“ Much the best thing to be in this place.” 

“ Owing to my work and so on, I don’t get up much 
to the club.” 

“T know, I know, and we never get down from it. I 
envy you being with Indians.” 

“Do you care to meet one or two?” 

“Very, very much indeed; it’s what I long for. This 
party to-day makes me so angry and miserable. I think 
my countrymen out here must be mad. Fancy inviting 
guests and not treating them properly! You and Mr. 
Turton and perhaps Mr. McBryde are the only people 
who showed any common politeness. The rest make me 
perfectly ashamed, and it’s got worse and worse.” 

It had. The Englishmen had intended to play up 
better, but had been prevented from doing so by their 
women folk, whom they had to attend, provide with tea, 
advise about dogs, etc. When tennis began, the barrier 
grew impenetrable. It had been hoped to have some sets 
between East and West, but this was forgotten, and the 
courts were monopolized by the usual club couples. Field- 
ing resented it too, but did not say so to the girl, for he 
found something theoretical in her outburst. Did she care 
about Indian music? he enquired; there was an old pro- 
fessor down at the College, who sang. 

“Oh, just what we wanted to hear. And do you know 
Doctor eAzizings 

“T know all about him. I don’t know him. Would 
you like him asked too?” 


MOSQUE 47 


“Mrs. Moore says he is so nice.” 

“Very well, Miss Quested. Will Thursday suit you?’”’ 

“ Indeed it will, and that morning we go to this Indian 
lady’s. All the nice things are coming Thursday.” 

‘““T won't ask the City Magistrate to bring you. I know 
he'll be busy at that time.” 

“Yes, Ronny is always hard-worked,” she replied, con- 
templating the hills. How lovely they suddenly were! 
But she couldn’t touch them. In front, like a shutter, 
fell a vision of her married life. She and Ronny would 
look into the club like this every evening, then drive 
home to dress; they would see the Lesleys and the Cal- 
lendars and the Turtons and the Burtons, and invite them 
and be invited by them, while the true India slid by 
unnoticed. Colour would remain—the pageant of birds 
in the early morning, brown bodies, white turbans, idols 
whose flesh was scarlet or blue—and movement would 
remain as long as there were crowds in the bazaar and 
bathers in the tanks. Perched up on the seat of a dog- 
cart, she would see them. But the force that lies behind 
colour and movement would escape her even more effec- 
tually than it did now. She would see India always as a 
frieze, never as a spirit, and she assumed that it was a 
spirit of which Mrs. Moore had had a glimpse. 

And sure enough they did drive away from the club in 
a few minutes, and they did dress, and to dinner came 
Miss Derek and the McBrydes, and the menu was: 
Julienne soup full of bullety bottled peas, pseudo-cottage 
bread, fish full of branching bones, pretending to be 
plaice, more bottled peas with the cutlets, trifle, sardines 
on toast: the menu of Anglo-India. A dish might be 
added or subtracted as one rose or fell in the official 
scale, the peas might rattle less or more, the sardines 
and the vermouth be imported by a different firm, but 
the tradition remained; the food of exiles, cooked by 
servants who did not understand it. Adela thought of 
the young men and women who had come out before 


48 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


her, P. & O. full after P. & O. full, and had been set 
down to the same food and the same ideas, and been 
snubbed in the same good-humoured way until they kept 
to the accredited themes and began to snub others. “I 
should never get like that,’ she thought, for she was 
young herself; all the same she knew that she had come 
up against something that was both insidious and tough, 
and against which she needed allies. She must gather 
around her at Chandrapore a few people who felt as she 
did, and she was glad to have met Mr. Fielding and the 
Indian lady with the unpronounceable name. Here at 
all events was a nucleus; she should know much better 
where she stood in the course of the next two days. 

Miss Derek—she companioned a Maharani in a remote 
Native State. She was genial and gay and made them 
all laugh about her leave, which she had taken because 
she felt she deserved it, not because the Maharani said 
she might go. Now she wanted to take the Maharajah’s 
motor-car as well; it had gone to a Chiefs’ Conference at 
Delhi, and she had a great scheme for burgling it at the 
junction as it came back in the train. She was also very 
funny about the Bridge Party—uindeed she regarded the 
entire peninsula as a comic opera. “If one couldn’t see 
the laughable side of these people one ‘Id be done for,” 
said Miss Derek. Mrs. McBryde—it was she who had 
been the nurse—ceased not to exclaim, “‘ Oh, Nancy, how 
topping! Oh, Nancy, how killing! I wish I could look 
at things like that.”’ Mr. McBryde did not speak much; 
he seemed nice. 

When the guests had gone, and Adela gone to bed, 
there was another interview between mother and son. 
He wanted her advice and support—while resenting inter- 
ference. “Does Adela talk to you much?” he began. 
“I’m so driven with work, I don’t see her as much as 
I hoped, but I hope she finds things comfortable.” 

* Adela and I talk mostly about India. Dear, since 


MOSQUE 49 


you mention it, you’re quite right—you ought to be more 
alone with her than you are.” 

“Yes, perhaps, but then people’ld gossip.” 

“Well, they must gossip sometime! Let them gossip.” 

“People are so odd out here, and it’s not like home 
—one’s always facing the footlights, as the Burra Sahib 
said. Take a silly little example: when Adela went out 
to the boundary of the club compound, and Fielding fol- 
lowed her. I saw Mrs. Callendar notice it. They notice 
everything, until they’re perfectly sure you’re their sort.” 

“T don’t think Adela’ll ever be quite their sort—she’s 
much too individual.” 

“I know, that’s so remarkable about her,” he said 
thoughtfully. Mrs. Moore thought him rather absurd. 
Accustomed to the privacy of London, she could not 
realize that India, seemingly so mysterious, contains none, 
and that consequently the conventions have greater force. 
“IT suppose nothing’s on her mind,” he continued. 

** Ask her, ask her yourself, my dear boy.” 

*““ Probably she’s heard tales of the heat, but of course 
I should pack her off to the Hills every April—I'm not 
one to keep a wife grilling in the Plains.” 

“Oh, it wouldn’t be the weather.” 

“ There's nothing in India but the weather, my dear 
mother ; it’s the Alpha and Omega of the whole affair.” 

“Yes, as Mrs. McBryde was saying, but it’s much more 
the Anglo-Indians themselves who are likely to get on 
Adela’s nerves. She doesn’t think they behave pleasantly 
to Indians, you see.” 

“What did I tell you? ” he exclaimed, losing his gentle 
manner. ‘I knew it last week. Oh, how like a woman 
to worry over a side-issue! ”’ 

She forgot about Adela in her surprise. ‘ A side-issue, 
a side-issue’?”’ she repeated. ‘‘ How can it be that?”’ 

“We're not out here for the purpose of behaving pleas- 


1” 


antly ! 


50 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“What do you mean?” 

“What I say. We're out here to do justice and keep 
the peace. Them’s my sentiments. India isn’t a drawing- 
room,” 

“Your sentiments are those of a god,” she said quietly, 
but it was his manner rather than his sentiments that 
annoyed her. 

Trying to recover his temper, he said, “ India likes 
gods.” 

“And Englishmen like posing as gods.” 

‘“‘ There’s no point in all this. Here we are, and we're 
going to stop, and the country’s got to put up with us, 
gods or no gods. Oh, look here,” he broke out, rather 
pathetically, “what do you and Adela want me to do? 
Go agairist my class, against all the people I respect and 
admire out here? Lose such power as I have for doing 
good in this country because my behaviour isn’t pleasant? 
You neither of you understand what work is, or you ‘Id 
never talk such eyewash. I hate talking like this, but one 
must occasionally. It’s morbidly sensitive to go on as 
Adela and you do. I noticed you both at the club to-day 
—after the Burra Sahib had been at all that trouble to 
amuse you. I am out here to work, mind, to hold this 
wretched country by force. [’m not a missionary or a 
Labour Member or a vague sentimental sympathetic lit- 
erary man. I’m just a servant of the Government; it’s 
the profession you wanted me to choose myself, and 
that’s that. We’re not pleasant in India, and we don’t 
intend to be pleasant. We've something more important 
to do.” 

He spoke sincerely. Every day he worked hard in the 
court trying to decide which of two untrue accounts was 
the less untrue, trying to dispense justice fearlessly, to 
protect the weak against the less weak, the incoherent 
against the plausible, surrounded by lies and flattery. 
That morning he had convicted a railway clerk of over- 
charging pilgrims for their tickets, and a Pathan of at- 


MOSQUE 51 


tempted rape. He expected no gratitude, no recognition 
for this, and both clerk and Pathan might appeal, bribe 
their witnesses more effectually in the interval, and get 
their sentences reversed. It was his duty. But he did 
expect sympathy from his own people, and except from 
new-comers he obtained it. He did think he ought not 
to be worried about “ Bridge Parties’? when the day’s 
work was over and he wanted to play tennis with his 
equals or rest his legs upon a long chair. 

He spoke sincerely, but she could have wished with 
less gusto. How Ronny revelled in the drawbacks of his 
situation! How he did rub it in that he was not in India 
to behave pleasantly, and derived positive satisfaction 
therefrom! He reminded her of his public-schooldays. 
The traces of young-man humanitarianism had sloughed 
off, and he talked like an intelligent and embittered boy. 
His words without his voice might have impressed her, 
but when she heard the self-satisfied lilt of them, when 
she saw the mouth moving so complacently and compe- 
tently beneath the little red nose, she felt, quite illogically, 
that this was not the last word on India. One touch of 
regret—not the canny substitute but the true regret from 
the heart—would have made him a different man, and the 
British Empire a different institution. 

“T’m going to argue, and indeed dictate,” she said, 
clinking her rings. ‘‘ The English are out here to be 
pleasant.” 

“How do you make that out, mother?” he asked, 
speaking gently again, for he was ashamed of his ir- 
ritability. 

“Because India is part of the earth. And God has 
put us on the earth in order to be pleasant to each other. 
(SOd soe :i3 . love.’ She hesitated, seeing how 
much he disliked the argument, but something made her 
goon. “God has put us on earth to love our neighbours 
and to show it, and He is omnipresent, even in India, to 
see how we are succeeding.” 


52 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


He looked gloomy, and a little anxious. He knew this 
religious strain in her, and that it was a symptom of 
bad health; there had been much of it when his stepfather 
died. He thought, “ She is certainly ageing, and I ought 
not to be vexed with anything she says.” 

“The desire to behave pleasantly satisfies God... . 
The sincere if impotent desire wins His blessing. I think 
everyone fails, but there are so many kinds of failure. 
Good will and more good will and more good will. 
Though I speak with the tongues of . . .” 

He waited until she had done, and then said gently, “I 
quite see that. I suppose I ought to get off to my files 
now, and you'll be going to bed.” 

““T suppose so, I suppose so.” They did not part for 
a few minutes, but the conversation had become unreal 
since Christianity had entered it. Ronny approved of 
religion as long as it endorsed the National Anthem, but 
he objected when it attempted to influence his life. Then 
he would say in respectful yet decided tones, “I don't 
think it does to talk about these things, every fellow has 
to work out his own religion,’ and any fellow who heard 
him muttered, “‘ Hear!” 

Mrs. Moore felt that she had made a mistake in men- 
tioning God, but she found him increasingly difficult to 
avoid as she grew older, and he had been constantly in her 
thoughts since she entered India, though oddly enough 
he satisfied her less. She must needs pronounce his name 
frequently, as the greatest she knew, yet she had never 
found it less efficacious. Outside the arch there seemed 
always an arch, beyond the remotest echo a silence. And 
she regretted afterwards that she had not kept to the real 
serious subject that had caused her to visit India—namely, 
the relationship between Ronny and Adela. Would they, 
or would they not, succeed in becoming engaged to be 
married? 


MOSQUE 53 


GIVAPT ERS Vi 


ZIZ had not gone to the Bridge Party. Immediately 
after his meeting with Mrs. Moore he was diverted 
to other matters. Several surgical cases came in, and kept 
him busy. He ceased to be either outcaste or poet, and 
became the medical student, very gay, and full of details 
of operations which he poured into the shrinking ears of 
his friends. His profession fascinated him at times, but 
he required it to be exciting, and it was his hand, not his 
mind, that was scientific. The knife he loved and used 
skilfully, and he also liked pumping in the latest serums. 
But the boredom of regime and hygiene repelled him, 
and after inoculating a man for enteric, he would go 
away and drink unfiltered water himself. “ What can 
you expect from the fellow?” said dour Major Callendar. 
“No grits, no guts.” But in his heart he knew that if 
Aziz and not he had operated last year on Mrs, Grays- 
ford’s appendix, the old lady would probably have lived. 
And this did not dispose him any better towards his 
subordinate. 

There was a row the morning after the mosque—they 
were always having rows. The Major, who had been up 
half the night, wanted damn well to know why Aziz had 
not come promptly when summoned. 

foit,excuse me, [°did)  I-mounted-my bike, and it 
bust in front of the Cow Hospital. So I had to find a 
tonga.”’ 

“ Bust in front of the Cow Hospital, did it? And how 
did you come to be there? ” 

“T beg your pardon?” 

“Oh Lord, oh Lord! When I live here ’—he kicked 
the gravel—“ and you live there—not ten minutes from 
me—and the Cow Hospital is right ever so far away the 
other side of you—there—then how did you come to be 


54 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


passing the Cow Hospital on the way to me? Now do 
some work for a change.” 

He strode away in a temper, without waiting for the 
excuse, which as far as it went was a sound one: the Cow 
Hospital was in a straight line between Hamidullah’s 
house and his own, so Aziz had naturally passed it. He 
never realized that the educated Indians visited one an- 
other constantly, and were weaving, however painfully, 
a new social fabric. Caste “or something of the sort”’ 
would prevent them. He only knew that no one ever 
told him the truth, although he had been in the country 
for twenty years. 

Aziz watched him go with amusement. When his 
spirits were up he felt that the English are a comic in- 
stitution, and he enjoyed being misunderstood by them. 
But it was an amusement of the emotions and nerves, 
which an accident or the passage of time might destroy; 
it was apart from the fundamental gaiety that he reached 
when he was with those whom he trusted. A disobliging 
simile involving Mrs. Callendar occurred to his fancy. 
“T must tell that to Mahmoud Ah, it'll make him laugh,” 
he thought. Then he got to work. He was competent 
and indispensable, and he knew it. The simile passed 
from his mind while he exercised his professional skill. 

During these pleasant and busy days, he heard vaguely 
that the Collector was giving a party, and that the Nawab 
Bahadur said everyone ought to go to it. His fellow- 
assistant, Doctor Panna Lal, was in ecstasies at the pros- 
pect, and was urgent that they should attend it together 
in his new tum-tum. The arrangement suited them both. 
Aziz was spared the indignity of a bicycle or the expense 
of hiring, while Dr. Panna Lal, who was timid and 
elderly, secured someone who could manage his horse. 
He could manage it himself, but only just, and he was 
afraid of the motors and of the unknown turn into the 
club grounds. ‘“‘ Disaster may come,” he said politely, 
“but we shall at all events get there safe, even if we do 


MOSQUE 3) 


not get back.” And with more logic: “ It will, I think, 
create a good impression should two doctors arrive at 
the same time.” 

But when the time came, Aziz was seized with a revul- 
sion, and determined not to go. For one thing his spell 
of work, lately concluded, left him independent and 
healthy. For another, the day chanced to fall on the 
anniversary of his wife’s death. She had died soon after 
he had fallen in love with her; he had not loved her at 
first. Touched by Western feeling, he disliked union 
with a woman whom he had never seen; moreover, when 
he did see her, she disappointed him, and he begat his 
first child in mere animality. The change began after 
its birth. He was won by her love for him, by a loyalty 
that implied something more than submission, and by 
her efforts to educate herself against that lifting of the 
purdah that would come in the next generation if not in 
theirs. She was intelligent, yet had old-fashioned grace. 
Gradually he lost the feeling that his relatives had chosen 
wrongly for him. Sensuous enjoyment—well, even if he 
had had it, it would have dulled in a year, and he had 
gained something instead, which seemed to increase the 
longer they lived together. She became the mother of a 
son . . . and in giving him a second son she died. Then 
he realized what he had lost, and that no woman could 
ever take her place; a friend would come nearer to her 
than another woman. She had gone, there was no one 
like her, and what is that uniqueness but love? He 
amused himself, he forgot her at times: but at other 
times he felt that she had sent all the beauty and joy of 
the world into Paradise, and he meditated suicide. Would 
he meet her beyond the tomb? Is there such a meeting- 
place? Though orthodox, he did not know. God’s unity 
was indubitable and indubitably announced, but on all 
other points he wavered like the average Christian; his 
belief in the life to come would pale to a hope, vanish, 
reappear, all in a single sentence or a dozen heart-beats, so 


56 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


that the corpuscles of his blood rather than he seemed to 
decide which opinion he should hold, and for how long. 
It was so with all his opinions. Nothing stayed, nothing 
passed that did not return; the circulation was ceaseless 
and kept him young, and he mourned his wife the more 
sincerely because he mourned her seldom. 

It would have been simpler to tell Dr. Lal that he had 
changed his mind about the party, but until the last 
minute he did not know that he had changed it; indeed, 
he didn’t change it, it changed itself. Unconquerable 
aversion welled. Mrs. Callendar, Mrs. Lesley—no, he 
couldn’t stand them in his sorrow: they would guess it— 
for he dowered the British matron with strange insight— 
and would delight in torturing him, they would mock him 
to their husbands. When he should have been ready, he 
stood at the Post Office, writing a telegram to his chil- 
dren, and found on his return that Dr. Lal had called for 
him, and gone on. Well, let him go on, as befitted the 
coarseness of his nature. For his own part, he would 
commune with the dead. 

And unlocking a drawer, he took out his wife’s photo- 
graph. He gazed at it, and tears spouted from his eyes. 
He thought, “ How unhappy I am!” But because he 
really was unhappy, another emotion soon mingled with 
his self-pity: he desired to remember his wife and could 
not. Why could he remember people whom he did not 
love? They were always so vivid to him, whereas the 
more he looked at this photograph, the less he saw. She 
had eluded him thus, ever since they had carried her to 
her tomb. He had known that she would pass from his 
hands and eyes, but had thought she could live in his 
mind, not realizing that the very fact that we have loved 
the dead increases their unreality, and that the more pas- 
sionately we invoke them the further they recede. A piece 
of brown cardboard and three children—that was all that 
was left of his wife. It was unbearable, and he thought 
again, “ How unhappy I am!” and became happier. He 


MOSQUE of 


had breathed for an instant the mortal air that surrounds 
Orientals and all men, and he drew back from it with a 
gasp, for he was young. “ Never, never shall I get over 
this,’ he told himself. ‘“‘ Most certainly my career is a 
failure, and my sons will be badly brought up.’ Since 
it was certain, he strove to avert it, and looked at some 
notes he had made on a case at the hospital. Perhaps 
some day a rich person might require this particular 
operation, and he gain a large sum. The notes inter- 
esting him on their own account, he locked the photo- 
graph up again. Its moment was over, and he did not 
think about his wife any more. 

After tea his spirits improved, and he went round to 
see Hamidullah. Hamidullah had gone to the party, but 
his pony had not, so Aziz borrowed it, also his friend’s 
riding breeches and polo mallet. He repaired to the 
Maidan. It was deserted except at its rim, where some 
bazaar youths were training. Training for what? They 
would have found it hard to say, but the word had got 
into the air. Round they ran, weedy and knock-kneed— 
the local physique was wretched—with an expression on 
their faces not so much of determination as of a deter- 
mination to be determined. “‘ Maharajah, salaam,” he 
called for a joke. The youths stopped and laughed. He 
advised them not to exert themselves. They promised 
they would not, and ran on. 

Riding into the middle, he began to knock the ball 
about. He could not play, but his pony could, and he set 
himself to learn, free from all human tension. He forgot 
the whole damned business of living as he scurried over 
the brown platter of the Maidan, with the evening wind 
on his forehead, and the encircling trees soothing his 
eyes. The ball shot away towards a stray subaltern who 
was also practising; he hit it back to Aziz and called, 
“Send it along again.” 

Sellirighty 

The new-comer had some notion of what to do, but his 


58 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


horse had none, and forces were equal. Concentrated on 
the ball, they somehow became fond of one another, and 
smiled when they drew rein to rest. Aziz liked soldiers 
—they either accepted you or swore at you, which was 
preferable to the civilian’s hauteur—and the subaltern 
liked anyone who could ride. 

“Often play?” he asked. 

aNever i 

“ Let’s have another chukker.”’ 

As he hit, his horse bucked and off he went, cried, ‘‘ Oh 
God!” and jumped on again. “ Don’t you ever fall off?” 

Stent 

* Not you.” 

They reined up again, the fire of good fellowship in 
their eyes. But it cooled with their bodies, for athletics 
can only raise a temporary glow. Nationality was re- 
turning, but before it could exert its poison they parted, 
saluting each other. “If only they were all like that,” 
each thought. 

Now it was sunset. A few of his co-religionists had 
come to the Maidan, and were praying with their faces 
towards Mecca. A Brahminy Bull walked towards them, 
and Aziz, though disinclined to pray himself, did not see 
why they should be bothered with the clumsy and idola- 
trous animal. He gave it a tap with his polo mallet. 
As he did so, a voice from the road hailed him: it was 
Dr. Panna Lal, returning in high distress from the Col- 
lector’s party. 

mr. WAZIZ;.Dr Aziz, where: your been t/ 1s waitederem 
full minutes’ time at your house, then I went.” 

“Tam so awfully sorry—I was compelled to go to the 
Post Office.” 

One of his own circle would have accepted this as mean- 
ing that he had changed his mind, an event too common 
to merit censure. But Dr. Lal, being of low extraction, 
was not sure whether an insult had not been intended, 
and he was further annoyed because Aziz had buffeted 


MOSQUE 59 


the Brahminy Bull. “ Post Office? Do you not send 
your servants? ”’ he said. 

“T have so few—my scale is very small.” 

“ Your servant spoke to me. I saw your servant.” 

“But, Dr. Lal, consider. How could I send my serv- 
ant when you were coming: you come, we go, my house 
is left alone, my servant comes back perhaps, and all 
my portable property has been carried away by bad char- 
acters in the meantime. Would you have that? The 
cook is deaf—I can never count on my cook—and the 
boy is only a little boy. Never, never do I and Hassan 
leave the house at the same time together. It is my 
fixed rule.” He said all this and much more out of 
civility, to save Dr. Lal’s face. It was not offered as 
truth and should not have been criticized as such. But 
the other demolished it—an easy and ignoble task. 
“Even if this so, what prevents leaving a chit saying 
where you go?” and so on, Aziz detested ill breeding, 
and made his pony caper. “ Farther away, or mine will 
start out of sympathy,” he wailed, revealing the true 
source of his irritation. “ It has been so rough and wild 
this afternoon. It spoiled some most valuable blossoms 
in the club garden, and had to be dragged back by four 
men. English ladies and gentlemen looking on, and the 
Collector Sahib himself taking a note. But, Dr. Aziz, 
Til not take up your valuable time. This will not interest 
you, who have so many engagements and telegrams. I 
am just a poor old doctor who thought right to pay my 
respects when I was asked and where I was asked. Your 
absence, I may remark, drew commentaries.” 

“They can damn well comment.”’ 

“Tt is fine to be young. Damn well! Oh, very fine. 
Damn whom?” 

“T go or not as I please.”’ 

“ Yet you promise me, and then fabricate this tale ofa 
telegram. Go forward, Dapple.” 

They went, and er had a wild desire to make an 


60 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


enemy for life. He could do it so easily by galloping 
near them. He did it. Dapple bolted. He thundered 
back on to the Maidan. The glory of his play with the 
subaltern remained for a little, he galloped and swooped 
till he poured with sweat, and until he returned the pony 
to Hamidullah’s stable he felt the equal of any man. 
Once on his feet, he had creeping fears. Was he in bad 
odour with the powers that be? Had he offended the 
Collector by absenting himself? Dr. Panna Lal was a 
person of no importance, yet was it wise to have quar- 
relled even with him? The complexion of his mind 
turned from human to political. He thought no longer, 
“Can I get on with people?” but “ Are they stronger 
than I?” breathing the prevalent miasma. 

At his home a chit was awaiting him, bearing the Gov- 
ernment stamp. It lay on his table like a high explosive, 
which at a touch might blow his flimsy bungalow to bits. 
He was going to be cashiered because he had not turned 
up at the party. When he opened the note, it proved 
to be quite different; an invitation from Mr. Fielding, the 
Principal of Government College, asking him to come to 
tea the day after to-morrow. His spirits revived with 
violence. They would have revived in any case, for he 
possessed a soul that could suffer but not stifle, and led 
a steady life beneath his mutability. But this invitation 
gave him particular joy, because Fielding had asked him 
to tea a month ago, and he had forgotten about it— 
never answered, never gone, just forgotten. And here 
came a second invitation, without a rebuke or even an 
allusion to his slip. Here was true courtesy—the civil 
deed that shows the good heart—and snatching up his 
pen he wrote an affectionate reply, and hurried back for 
news to Hamidullah’s. For he had never met the Prin- 
cipal, and believed that the one serious gap in his life 
was going to be filled. He longed to know everything 
about the splendid fellow—his salary, preferences, ante- 
cedents, how best one might please him. But Hamidullah 


MOSQUE 61 


was still out, and Mahmoud Ali, who was in, would only 
make silly rude jokes about the party. 


GHAPTE Re Vit 


HIS Mr. Fielding had been caught by India late. He 
was over forty when he entered that oddest portal, 
the Victoria Terminus at Bombay, and—having bribed a 
European ticket inspector—took his luggage into the com- 
partment of his first tropical train. The journey remained 
in his mind as significant. Of his two carriage com- 
panions one was a youth, fresh to the East like himself, 
the other a seasoned Anglo-Indian of his own age. A 
gulf divided him from either; he had seen too many cities 
and men to be the first or to become the second. New 
impressions crowded on him, but they were not the ortho- 
dox new impressions; the past conditioned them, and so 
it was with his mistakes. To regard an Indian as if he 
were an Italian is not, for instance, a common error, nor 
perhaps a fatal one, and Fielding often attempted analo- 
gies between this peninsula and that other, smaller and 
more exquisitely shaped, that stretches into the classic 
waters of the Mediterranean. 

His career, though scholastic, was varied, and had in- 
cluded going to the bad and repenting thereafter. By 
now he was a hard-bitten, good-tempered, intelligent 
fellow on the verge of middle age, with a belief in educa- 
tion. He did not mind whom he taught; public school- 
boys, mental defectives and policemen, had all come 
his way, and he had no objection to adding Indians. 
Through the influence of friends, he was nominated 
Principal of the little college at Chandrapore, liked it, 
and assumed he was a success. He did succeed with his 
pupils, but the gulf between himself and his countrymen, 
which he had noticed in the train, widened distressingly. 
He could not at first see what was wrong. He was not 


62 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


unpatriotic, he always got on with Englishmen in Eng- 
land, all his best friends were English, so why was it not 
the same out here? Outwardly of the large shaggy type, 
with sprawling limbs and blue eyes, he appeared to in- 
spire confidence until he spoke. Then something in his 
manner puzzled people and failed to allay the distrust 
which his profession naturally inspired. There needs 
must be this evil of brains in India, but woe to him 
through whom they are increased! The feeling grew 
that Mr. Fielding was a disruptive force, and rightly, for 
ideas are fatal to caste, and he used ideas by that most 
potent method—interchange. Neither a missionary nor 
a student, he was happiest in the give-and-take of a pri- 
vate conversation. The world, he believed, is a globe of 
men who are trying to reach one another and can best do 
so by the help of good will plus culture and intelligence— 
a creed ill suited to Chandrapore, but he had come out 
too late to lose it. He had no racial feeling—not because 
he was superior to his brother civilians, but because he 
had matured in a different atmosphere, where the herd- 
instinct does not flourish. The remark that did him most 
harm at the club was a silly aside to the effect that the so- 
called white races are really pinko-grey. He only said 
this to be cheery, he did not realize that ‘‘ white”’ has no 
more to do witha colour than “ God save the King ”’ with 
a god, and that it is the height of impropriety to consider 
what it does connote. The pinko-grey male whom he ad- 
dressed was subtly scandalized; his sense of insecurity 
was awoken, and he communicated it to the rest of the 
herd. 

Still, the men tolerated him for the sake of his good 
heart and strong body; it was their wives who decided 
that he was not a sahib really. They disliked him. He 
took no notice of them, and this, which would have 
passed without comment in feminist England, did him 
harm in a community where the male is expected to be 
lively and helpful. Mr. Fielding never advised one about 


MOSQUE 63 


dogs or horses, or dined, or paid his midday calls, or 
decorated trees for one’s children at Christmas, and 
though he came to the club, it was only to get his tennis 
or billiards, and to go. This was true. He had dis- 
covered that it is possible to keep in with Indians and 
Englishmen, but that he who would also keep in with 
Englishwomen must drop the Indians. The two wouldn’t 
combine. Useless to blame either party, useless to blame 
them for blaming one another. It just was so, and one 
had to choose. Most Englishmen preferred their own 
kinswomen, who, coming out in increasing numbers, 
made life on the home pattern yearly more possible. He 
had found it convenient and pleasant to associate with 
Indians and he must pay the price. As a rule no Eng- 
lishwoman entered the College except for official func- 
tions, and if he invited Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested 
to tea, it was because they were new-comers who would 
view everything with an equal if superficial eye, and 
would not turn on a special voice when speaking to his 
other guests. 

The College itself had been slapped down by the Public 
Works Department, but its grounds included an ancient 
garden and a garden-house, and here he lived for much 
of the year. He was dressing after a bath when Dr. 
Aziz was announced. Lifting up his voice, he shouted 
from the bedroom, “ Please make yourself at home.” 
The remark was unpremeditated, like most of his actions; 
it was what he felt inclined to say. 

To Aziz it hada very definite meaning. ‘“ May I really, 
Mr. Fielding? It’s very good of you,” he called back; “I 
like unconventional behaviour so extremely.” His spirits 
flared up, he glanced round the living-room. Some lux- 
ury in it, but no order—nothing to intimidate poor In- 
dians. It was also a very beautiful room, opening into 
the garden through three high arches of wood. ‘“ The 
fact is I have long wanted to meet you,” he continued. 
*““T have heard so much about your warm heart from the 


64 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


Nawab Bahadur. But where is one to meet in a wretched 
hole like Chandrapore?’”’ He came close up to the door. 
“When I was greener here, I'll tell you what. I used to 
wish you to fall ill so that we could meet that way.” 
They laughed, and encouraged by his success he began to 
improvise. “I said to myself, How does Mr. Fielding 
look this morning? Perhaps pale. And the Civil Sur- 
geon is pale too, fe will not be able to attend upon him 
when the shivering commences. I should have been sent 
for instead. Then we would have had jolly talks, for 
you are a celebrated student of Persian poetry.” 

“You know me by sight, then.” 

“Of course, of course. You know me?” 

““T know you very well by name.” 

““T have been here such a short time, and always in the 
bazaar. No wonder you have never seen me, and I 
wonder you know my name. I say, Mr. Fielding? ” 

6é Ves? 93 

“Guess what I look like before you come out. That 
will be a kind of game.” 

“You're five feet nine inches high,” said Fielding, 
surmising this much through the ground glass of the 
bedroom door. 

“Jolly good. What next? Have I not a venerable 
white beard?” 

* Blast!” 

“ Anything wrong?” 

“T’ve stamped on my last collar stud.” 

“Take mine, take mine.”’ 

““Have you a spare one?”’ 

“Yes, yes, one minute.” 

“ Not if you’re wearing it yourself.” 

“No, no, one in my pocket.” Stepping aside, so that 
his outline might vanish, he wrenched off his collar, and 
pulled out of his shirt the back stud, a gold stud, which 
was part of a set that his brother-in-law had brought him 
from Europe.” ~ Here it is;’ he cried. 


MOSQUE 65 


“Come in with it if you don’t mind the unconven- 
tionality.” 

“ One minute again.” Replacing his collar, he prayed 
that it would not spring up at the back during tea. Field- 
ing’s bearer, who was helping him to dress, opened the 
door for him. 

“Many thanks.” They shook hands smiling. He 
began to look round, as he would have with any old 
friend. Fielding was not surprised at the rapidity of 
their intimacy. With so emotional a people it was apt 
to come at once or never, and he and Aziz, having heard 
only good of each other, could afford to dispense with 
preliminaries. 

“But I always thought that Englishmen kept their 
rooms so tidy. It seems that this is not so. I need not 
be so ashamed.” He sat down gaily on the bed; then, 
forgetting himself entirely, drew up his legs and folded 
them under him. ‘‘ Everything ranged coldly on shelves 
was what J thought——I say, Mr. Fielding, is the stud 
going to go in?” 

bolenae ma doots.” 

“What's that last sentence, please? Will you teach 
me some new words and so improve my English? ” 

Fielding doubted whether “everything ranged coldly 
on shelves” could be improved. He was often struck 
with the liveliness with which the younger generation 
handled a foreign tongue. They altered the idiom, but 
they could say whatever they wanted to say quickly; 
there were none of the babuisms ascribed to them up at 
the club. But then the club moved slowly; it still de- 
clared that few Mohammedans and no Hindus would eat 
at an Englishman’s table, and that all Indian ladies were 
in impenetrable purdah. Individually it knew better; as 
a club it declined to change. 

“Let me put in your stud. I see... the shirt back’s 
hole is rather small and to rip it wider a pity.” 


66 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“Why in hell does one wear collars at all?’ grumbled 
Fielding as he bent his neck. 

“We wear them to pass the Police.” 

What's that?” 

“Tf Pm biking in English dress—starch collar, hat 
with ditch—they take no notice. When I wear a fez, they 
cry, ‘ Your lamp’s out!’ Lord Curzon did not consider 
this when he urged natives of India to retain their pic- 
turesque costumes.—Hooray! Stud’s gone in.—Some- 
times I shut my eyes and dream I have splendid clothes 
again and am riding into battle behind Alamgir. Mr. 
Fielding, must not India have been beautiful then, with 
the Mogul Empire at its height and Alamgir reigning at 
Delhi upon the Peacock Throne? ”’ 

“Two ladies are coming to tea to meet you—TI think 
you know them.” 

“ Meet me? I know no ladies.” 

“ Not Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested?”’ 

“ Oh yes—I remember.” The romance at the mosque 
had sunk out of his consciousness as soon as it was over. 
“ An excessively aged lady; but will you please repeat the 
name of her companion? ”’ 

“Miss Quested.” 

“Just as you wish.” He was disappointed that other 
guests were coming, for he preferred to be alone with his 
new friend. 

“You can talk to Miss Quested about the Peacock 
Throne if you like—she’s artistic, they say.” 

“Ts she a Post Impressionist ? ” 

“Post Impressionism, indeed! Come along to tea. 
This world is getting too much for me altogether.” 

Aziz was offended. The remark suggested that he, an 
obscure Indian, had no right to have heard of Post Im- 
pressionism—a privilege reserved for the Ruling Race, 
that. He said stiffly, “ I do not consider Mrs. Moore my 
friend, I only met her accidentally in my mosque,” and 


MOSQUE 67 


was adding “a single meeting is too short to make a 
friend,” but before he could finish the sentence the stiff- 
ness vanished from it, because he felt Fielding’s funda- 
mental good will. His own went out to it, and grappled 
beneath the shifting tides of emotion which can alone 
bear the voyager to an anchorage but may also carry him 
across it on to the rocks. He was safe really—as safe as 
the shore-dweller who can only understand stability and 
supposes that every ship must be wrecked, and he had 
sensations the shore-dweller cannot know. Indeed, he 
was sensitive rather than responsive. In every remark 
he found a meaning, but not always the true meaning, 
and his life though vivid was largely a dream. Fielding, 
for instance, had not meant that Indians are obscure, but 
that Post Impressionism is; a gulf divided his remark 
from Mrs. Turton’s “‘ Why, they speak English,” but to 
Aziz the two sounded alike. Fielding saw that something 
had gone wrong, and equally that it had come right, but 
he didn’t fidget, being an optimist where personal rela- 
tions were concerned, and their talk rattled on as before. 

‘“‘ Besides the ladies I am expecting one of my assistants 
-—Narayan Godbole.”’ 

“Oho, the Deccani Brahman! ”’ 

“He wants the past back too, but not precisely 
Alamgir.” 

“T should think not. Do you know what Deccantr 
Brahmans say? That England conquered India from 
them—from them, mind, and not from the Moguls. Is 
not that like their cheek? They have even bribed it to 
appear in text-books, for they are so subtle and immensely 
rich. Professor Godbole must be quite unlike all other 
Deccani Brahmans from all I can hear say. A most sin- 
cere chap.” 

“Why don’t you fellows run a club in Chandrapore, 
Aziz?” 

“ Perhaps—some day . . . just now I see Mrs. Moore 
and—what’s her name—coming.” 


68 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


How fortunate that it was an “ unconventional ”’ party, 
where formalities are ruled out! On this basis Aziz 
found the English ladies easy to talk to, he treated them 
like men. Beauty would have troubled him, for it en- 
tails rules of its own, but Mrs. Moore was so old and 
Miss Quested so plain that he was spared this anxiety. 
Adela’s angular body and the freckles on her face were 
terrible defects in his eyes, and he wondered how God 
could have been so unkind to any female form. His 
attitude towards her remained entirely straightforward 
in consequence. 

“| want to ask you something, Dr. Aziz,” she began. 
“heard from Mrs. Moore how helpful you were to her 
in the mosque, and how interesting. She learnt more 
about India in those few minutes’ talk with you than 
in the three weeks since we landed.” 

“Oh, please do not mention a little thing like that. Is 
there anything else I may tell you about my country? ”’ 

‘““T want you to explain a disappointment we had this 
morning; it must be some point of Indian etiquette.” 

“There honestly is none,” he replied. ‘We are by 
nature a most informal people.” 

“T am afraid we must have made some blunder and 
given offence,” said Mrs. Moore. 

“That is even more impossible. But may I know the 
facts?” 

“An Indian lady and gentleman were to send their 
carriage for us this morning at nine. It has never come. 
We waited and waited and waited; we can’t think what 
happened.” 

“Some misunderstanding,” said Fielding, seeing at 
once that it was the type of incident that had better not 
be cleared up. 

“Oh no, it wasn’t that,” Miss Quested persisted. 
“They even gave up going to Calcutta to entertain us. 
We must have made some stupid blunder, we both feel 


sure.” 


’ 


MOSQUE 69 


“T wouldn’t worry about that.” 

“Exactly what Mr. Heaslop tells me,’ she retorted, 
reddening a little. “If one doesn’t worry, how’s one to 
understand ? ” 

The host was inclined to change the subject, but Aziz 
took it up warmly, and on learning fragments of the 
delinquents’ name pronounced that they were Hindus. 

“ Slack Hindus—they have no idea of society; I know 
them very well because of a doctor at the hospital. Such 
a slack, unpunctual fellow! It is as well you did not go 
to their house, for it would give you a wrong idea of 
India. Nothing sanitary. I think for my own part they 
grew ashamed of their house and that is why they did 
not send.” 

‘“That’s a notion,” said the other man. 

“I do so hate mysteries,” Adela announced. 

“We English do.” 

“T dislike them not because I’m English, but from my 
own personal point of view,” she corrected. 

“T like mysteries but I rather dislike muddles,” said 
Mrs. Moore. 

“A mystery is a muddle.” 

“Oh, do you think so, Mr. Fielding? ” 

“ A mystery is only a high-sounding term for a muddle. 
No advantage in stirring it up, in either case. Aziz and 
I know well that India’s a muddle.” 

“ Tndia’s Oh, what an alarming idea!” 

“ There'll be no muddle when you come to see me,” 
said Aziz, rather out of his depth. “ Mrs. Moore and 
everyone—lI invite you all—oh, please.” 

The old lady accepted: she still thought the young 
doctor excessively nice; moreover, a new feeling, half 
languor, half excitement, bade her turn down any fresh 
path. Miss Quested accepted out of adventure. She also 
liked Aziz, and believed that when she knew him better 
he would unlock his country for her. His invitation 
gratified her, and she asked him for his address. 





70 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


Aziz thought of his bungalow with horror. It was a 
detestable shanty near a low bazaar. There was prac- 
tically only one room in it, and that infested with small 
black flies. “ Oh, but we will talk of something else now,” 
he exclaimed. ‘‘I wish I lived here. See this beautiful 
room! Let us admire it together for a little. See those 
curves at the bottom of the arches. What delicacy! It 
is the architecture of Question and Answer. Mrs. Moore, 
you are in India; I am not joking.’ The room inspired 
him. It was an audience hall built in the eighteenth 
century for some high official, and though of wood had 
reminded Fielding of the Loggia de’ Lanzi at Florence. 
Little rooms, now Europeanized, clung to it on either 
side, but the central hall was unpapered and unglassed, 
and the air of the garden poured in freely. One sat in 
public—on exhibition, as it were—in full view of the 
gardeners who were screaming at the birds and of the 
man who rented the tank for the cultivation of water 
chestnut. Fielding let the mango trees too—there was — 
no knowing who might not come in—and his servants sat 
on his steps night and day to discourage thieves. Beau- 
tiful certainly, and the Englishman had not spoilt it, 
whereas Aziz in an occidental moment would have hung 
Maude Goodmans on the walls. Yet there was no doubt 
to whom the room really belonged. .. . 

““T am doing justice here. A poor widow who has 
been robbed comes along and I give her fifty rupees, to 
another a hundred, and so on and so on. I should like 
that.”’ 

Mrs. Moore smiled, thinking of the modern method as 
exemplified in her son. “ Rupees don’t last for ever, ’'m 
afraid,” she said. 

“Mine would. God would give me more when he saw 
I gave. Always be giving, like the Nawab Bahadur. My 
father was the same, that is why he died poor.” And 
pointing about the room he peopled it with clerks and 
officials, ali benevolent because they lived long ago. ‘‘ So 


MOSQUE 71 


we would sit giving for ever—on a carpet instead of 
chairs, that is the chief change between now and then, but 
I think we would never punish anyone.” 

The ladies agreed. 

“Poor criminal, give him another chance. It only 
makes a man worse to go to prison and be corrupted.” 
His face grew very tender—the tenderness of one in- 
capable of administration, and unable to grasp that if the 
poor criminal is let off he will again rob the poor widow. 
He was tender to everyone except a few family enemies 
whom he did not consider human: on these he desired 
revenge. He was even tender to the English; he knew 
at the bottom of his heart that they could not help being 
so cold and odd and circulating like an ice stream 
through his land. “‘ We punish no one, no one,” he re- 
peated, “and in the evening we will give a great banquet 
with a nautch and lovely girls shall shine on every side 
of the tank with fireworks in their hands, and all shall 
be feasting and happiness until the next day, when there 
shall be justice as before—fifty rupees, a hundred, a 
thousand—till peace comes. Ah, why didn’t we live in 
that time ?—But are you admiring Mr. Fielding’s house? 
Do look how the pillars are painted blue, and the veran- 
dah’s pavilions—what do you call them ?—that are above 
us inside are blue also. Look at the carving on the 
pavilions. Think of the hours it took. Their little roofs 
are curved to imitate bamboo. So pretty—and the bam- 
boos waving by the tank outside. Mrs. Moore! Mrs. 
Moore!” 

“Well?” she said, laughing. 

“You remember the water by our mosque? It comes 
down and fills this tank—a skilful arrangement of the 
Emperors. They stopped here going down into Bengai. 
They ioved water. Wherever they went they created 
fountains, gardens, hammams. I was telling Mr. Field- 
ing I would give anything to serve them.” 

He was wrong about the water, which no Emperor, 


72 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


however skilful, can cause to gravitate uphill; a depres- 
sion of some depth together with the whole of Chandra- 
pore lay between the mosque and Fielding’s house. 
Ronny would have pulled him up, Turton would have 
wanted to pull him up, but restrained himself. Fielding 
did not even want to pull him up; he had dulled his crav- 
ing for verbal truth and cared chiefly for truth of mood. 
As for Miss Quested, she accepted everything Aziz said 
as true verbally. In her ignorance, she regarded him as 
“‘ India,” and never surmised that his outlook was limited 
and his method inaccurate, and that no one is India. 

He was now much excited, chattering away hard, and 
even saying damn when he got mixed up in his sentences. 
He told them of his profession, and of the operations he 
had witnessed and performed, and he went into details 
that scared Mrs. Moore, though Miss Quested mistook 
them for proofs of his broad-mindedness; she had heard 
such talk at home in advanced academic circles, delib- 
erately free. She supposed him to be emancipated as 
well as reliable, and placed him on a pinnacle which he 
could not retain. He was high enough for the moment, 
to be sure, but not on any pinnacle. Wings bore him up, 
and flagging would deposit him. 

The arrival of Professor Godbole quieted him some- 
what, but it remained his afternoon. The Brahman, 
polite and enigmatic, did not impede his eloquence, and 
even applauded it. He took his tea at a little distance 
from the outcasts, from a low table placed slightly be- 
hind him, to which he stretched back, and as it were en- 
countered food by accident; all feigned indifference to 
Professor Godbole’s tea. He was elderly and wizen with 
a grey moustache and grey-blue eyes, and his complexion 
was as fair as a European’s. He wore a turban that 
looked like pale purple macaroni, coat, waistcoat, dhoti, 
socks with clocks. The clocks matched the turban, and 
his whole appearance suggested harmony—as if he had 
reconciled the products of East and West, mental as well 


MOSQUE 73 


as physical, and could never be discomposed. The ladies 
were interested in him, and hoped that he would supple- 
ment Dr. Aziz by saying something about religion. But 
he only ate—ate and ate, smiling, never letting his eyes 
catch sight of his hand. 

Leaving the Mogul Emperors, Aziz turned to topics 
that could distress no one. He described the ripening 
of the mangoes, and how in his boyhood he used to run 
out in the Rains to a big mango grove belonging to an 
uncle and gorge there. “ Then back with water stream- 
ing over you and perhaps rather a pain inside. But I 
did not mind. All my friends were paining with me. 
We have a proverb in Urdu: ‘ What does unhappiness 
matter when we are all unhappy together?’ which comes 
in conveniently after mangoes. Miss Quested, do wait 
for mangoes. Why not settle altogether in India? ” 

‘I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ said Adela. She made 
the remark without thinking what it meant. To her, as 
to the three men, it seemed in key with the rest of the 
conversation, and not for several minutes—indeed, not 
for half an hour—did she realize that it was an impor- 
tant remark, and ought to have been made in the first 
place to Ronny. 

“Visitors like you are too rare,” 

“They are indeed,” said Professor Godbole. “ Such 
affability is seldom seen. But what can we offer to de- 
tain them?” 

“Mangoes, mangoes.” 

They laughed. “‘ Even mangoes can be got in Eng- 
land now,” put in Fielding. ‘ They ship them in ice-cold 
rooms. You can make India in England apparently, just 
as you can make England in India.” 

“Frightfully expensive in both cases,” said the girl. 

*“T suppose so.” 

* And nasty.” 

But the host wouldn’t allow the conversation to take 
this heavy turn. He turned to the old lady, who looked 


74 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


flustered and put out—he could not imagine why—and 
asked about her own plans. She replied that she should 
like to see over the College. Everyone immediately rose, 
with the exception of Professor Godbole, who was finish- 
ing a banana. 

“Don’t you come too, Adela; you dislike institutions.” 

“Yes, that is so,” said Miss Quested, and sat down 
again. 

Aziz hesitated. His audience was splitting up. The 
more familiar half was going, but the more attentive 
remained. Reflecting that it was an “ unconventional ” 
afternoon, he stopped. 

Talk went on as before. Could one offer the visitors 
unripe mangoes in a fool? “I speak now as a doctor: 
no.” Then the old man said, ‘ But I will send you up 
a few healthy sweets. I will give myself that pleasure.” 

“Miss Quested, Professor Godbole’s sweets are deli- 
cious,’ said Aziz sadly, for he wanted to send sweets 
too and had no wife to cook them. “They will give 
you a real Indian treat. Ah, in my poor position I can 
give you nothing.” 

“T don’t know why you say that, when you have so 
kindly asked us to your house.” 

He thought again of his bungalow with horror. Good 
heavens, the stupid girl had taken him at his word! 
What was he to do? “ Yes, all that is settled,” he cried. 
*‘T invite you all to see me in the Marabar Caves.” 

“T shall be delighted.” 

“Oh, that is a most magnificent entertainment com- 
pared to my poor sweets. But has not Miss Quested 
visited our caves already?” 

“No. I’ve not even heard of them.” 

“ Not heard of them?” both cried. “The Marabar 
Caves in the Marabar Hills?” 

“We hear nothing interesting up at the club. Only 
tennis and ridiculous gossip.” 

The old man was silent, perhaps feeling that it was 


MOSQUE 75 


unseemly of her to criticize her race, perhaps fearing 
that if he agreed she would report him for disloyalty. 
But the young man uttered a rapid ‘‘ I know.” 

“Then tell me everything you will, or I shall never 
understand India. Are they the hills I sometimes see in 
the evening? What are these caves?” 

Aziz undertook to explain, but it presently appeared 
that he had never visited the caves himself—had always 
been “‘ meaning ”’ to go, but work or private business had 
prevented him, and they were so far. Professor Godbole 
chaffed him pleasantly. “‘ My dear young sir, the pot 
and the kettle! Have you ever heard of that useful 
proverb?” 

“Are they large caves?” she asked. 

* No, not large.” 

** Do describe them, Professor Godbole.” 

“It will be a great honour.’’ He drew up his chair 
and an expression of tension came over his face. Taking 
the cigarette box, she offered to him and to Aziz, and lit 
up herself. After an impressive pause he said: “ There 
is an entrance in the rock which you enter, and through 
the entrance is the cave.” 

* Something like the caves at Elephanta? ” 

“Oh no, not at all; at Elephanta there are sculptures 
of Siva and Parvati. There are no sculptures at Mara- 
bard 

“They are immensely holy, no doubt,” said Aziz, to 
help on the narrative. 

PO) i aelep, Coli tents ae 

“Still, they are ornamented in some way.” 

Ohenors 

“ Well, why are they so famous? We all talk of the 
famous Marabar Caves. Perhaps that is our empty 
praca 

“No, I should not quite say that.” 

** Describe them to this lady, then.” 

“Tt will be a great pleasure.” He forewent the pleas- 


76 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


ure, and Aziz realized that he was keeping back some- 
thing about the caves. He realized because he often 
suffered from similar inhibitions himself. Sometimes, to 
the exasperation of Major Callendar, he would pass over 
the one relevant fact in a position, to dwell on the hun- 
dred irrelevant. The Major accused him of disingenuous- 
ness, and was roughly right, but only roughly. It was 
rather that a power he couldn’t control capriciously 
silenced his mind. Godbole had been silenced now; no 
doubt not willingly, he was concealing something. 
Handled subtly, he might regain control and announce 
that the Marabar Caves were—full of stalactites, perhaps; 
Aziz led up to this, but they weren't. 

The dialogue remained light and friendly, and Adela 
had no conception of its underdrift. She did not know 
that the comparatively simple mind of the Mohammedan 
was encountering Ancient Night. Aziz played a thrill- 
ing game. He was handling a human toy that refused 
to work—he knew that much. If it worked, neither he 
nor Professor Godbole would be the least advantaged, 
but the attempt enthralled him and was akin to abstract 
thought. On he chattered, defeated at every move by 
an opponent who would not even admit that a move had 
been made, and further than ever from discovering what, 
if anything, was extraordinary about the Marabar Caves. 

Into this Ronny dropped. 

With an annoyance he took no trouble to conceal, he 
called from the garden: “‘ What’s happened to Fielding? 
Where’s my mother? ”’ 

“Good evening!” she replied coolly. 

““T want you and mother at once. There’s to be polo.” 

“T thought there was to be no polo.”’ 

“ Everything’s altered. Some soldier men have come 
in. Come along and I'll tell you about it.” 

“Your mother will return shortly, sir,’ said Professor 
Godbole, who had risen with deference. ‘‘ There is but 
little to see at our poor college.” 


MOSQUE 77 


Ronny took no notice, but continued to address his 
remarks to Adela; he had hurried away from his work 
to take her to see the polo, because he thought it would 
give her pleasure. He did not mean to be rude to the 
two men, but the only link he could be conscious of with 
an Indian was the official, and neither happened to be 
his subordinate. As private individuals he forgot them. 

Unfortunately Aziz was in no mood to be forgotten. 
He would not give up the secure and intimate note of 
the last hour. He had not risen with Godbole, and 
now, offensively friendly, called from his seat, “‘ Come 
along up and join us, Mr. Heaslop; sit down till your 
mother turns up.”’ 

Ronny replied by ordering one of Fielding’s servants 
to fetch his master at once. 

““ He may not understand that. Allow me en NZiZ 
repeated the order idiomatically. 

Ronny was tempted to retort; he knew the type; he 
knew all the types, and this was the spoilt. Westernized. 
But he was a servant of the Government, it was his job 
to avoid “ incidents,’ so he said nothing, and ignored 
the provocation that Aziz continued to offer. Aziz was 
provocative. Everything he said had an impertinent 
flavour or jarred. His wings were failing, but he re- 
fused to fall without a struggle. He did not mean to be 
impertinent to Mr. Heaslop, who had never done him 
harm, but here was an Anglo-Indian who must become a 
man before comfort could be regained. He did not mean 
to be greasily confidential to Miss Quested, only to enlist 
her support; nor to be loud and jolly towards Professor 
Godbole. A strange quartette—he fluttering to the 
ground, she puzzled by the sudden ugliness, Ronny 
fuming, the Brahman observing all three, but with down- 
cast eyes and hands folded, as if nothing was noticeable. 
A scene from a play, thought Fielding, who now saw 
them from the distance across the garden grouped among 
the blue pillars of his beautiful hall, 





78 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


b] 


“Don’t trouble to come, mother,” Ronny called; 
“we're just starting.’ Then he hurried to Fielding, 
drew him aside and said with pseudo-heartiness, “I say, 
old man, do excuse me, but I think perhaps you oughtn’t 
to have left Miss Quested alone.” 

“Tm sorry, what’s up?” replied Fielding, also trying 
to be genial. 

“Well... I’m the sun-dried bureaucrat, no doubt; 
still, I don’t like to see an English girl left smoking with 
two Indians.” 

““She stopped, as she smokes, by her own wish, old 
man.” 

“Yes, that’s all right in England.” 

“T really can’t see the harm.” 

“If you can’t see, you can’t see... . Can't you see 
that fellow’s a bounder?” 

Aziz flamboyant, was patronizing Mrs. Moore. 

“He isn’t a bounder,”’ protested Fielding. ‘“ His 
nerves are on edge, that’s all.” 

“What should have upset his precious nerves?” 

“TI don’t know. He was all right when I left.”’ 

“ Well, it’s nothing I’ve said,” said Ronny reassuringly. 
“TI never even spoke to him.” 

“ Oh well, come along now, and take your ladies away; 
the catastrophe over.”’ 

“Fielding . . . don’t think I’m taking it badly, or 
anything of that sort. . . . I suppose you won’t come on 
to the polo with us? We should all be delighted.” 

“Tm afraid I can’t, thanks all the same. I’m awfully 
sorry you feel I’ve been remiss. I didn’t mean to be.” 

So the leave-taking began. Every one was cross or 
wretched. It was as if irritation exuded from the very 
soil. Could one have been so petty on a Scotch moor or 
an Italian alp? Fielding wondered afterwards. There 
seemed no reserve of tranquillity to draw upon in India. 
Either none, or else tranquillity swallowed up everything, 
as it appeared to do for Professor Godbole. Here was 


MOSQUE ae 


Aziz all shoddy and odious, Mrs. Moore and Miss 
Quested both silly, and he himself and Heaslop both 
decorous on the surface, but detestable really, and detest- 
ing each other. 

“Good-bye, Mr. Fielding, and thank you so much. ... 
What lovely College buildings! ” 

“Good-bye, Mrs. Moore.” 

“Good-bye, Mr. Fielding. Such an interesting after- 
OOD eee 

“Good-bye, Miss Quested.” 

““ Good-bye, Dr. Aziz.” 

“‘ Good-bye, Mrs. Moore.”’ 

** Good-bye, Dr. Aziz.” 

“Good-bye, Miss Quested.” He pumped her hand up 
and down to show that he felt at ease. ‘“ You'll jolly 
jolly well not forget those caves, won’t you? I'll fix the 
whole show up in a jiffy.” 

ed danlevoly ie ott 

Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added, “ What 
a shame you leave India so soon! Oh, do reconsider 
your decision, do stay.” 

“Good-bye, Professor Godbole,” she continued, sud- 
denly agitated. “It’s a shame we never heard you sing.” 

““T may sing now,” he replied, and did. 

His thin voice rose, and gave out one sound after an- 
other. At times there seemed rhythm, at times there was 
the illusion of a Western melody. But the ear, baffled 
repeatedly, soon lost any clue, and wandered in a maze 
of noises, none harsh or unpleasant, none intelligible. It 
was the song of an unknown bird. Only the servants 
understood it. They began to whisper to one another. 
The man who was gathering water chestnut came naked 
out of the tank, his lips parted with delight, disclosing 
‘his scarlet tongue. The sounds continued and ceased 
after a few moments as casually as they had begun— 
apparently half through a bar, and upon the subr 
dominant. 


80 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“Thanks so much: what was that?” asked Fielding. 

“TI will explain in detail. It was a religious song. I 
placed myself in the position of a milkmaiden. I say 
to Shri Krishna, ‘Come! come to me only.’ The god 
refuses to come. I grow humble and say: ‘Do not 
come to me only. Multiply yourself into a hundred 
Krishnas, and let one go to each of my hundred com- 
panions, but one, O Lord of the Universe, come to me.’ 
He refuses to come. This is repeated several times. The 
song is composed in a raga appropriate to the present 
hour, which is the evening.” 

‘But He comes in some other song, I hope?” said 
Mrs. Moore gently. 

““Oh no, he refuses to come,” repeated Godbole, per- 
haps not understanding her question. “I say to Him, 
Come, come, come, -come, cone, come.) Tie nepiectssrc 
come.” 

Ronny’s steps had died away, and there was a moment 
of absolute silence. No ripple disturbed the water, no 
leaf stirred. 


CHAPTER VIII 


PE a heey Miss Quested had known Ronny well 
in England, she felt well advised to visit him before 
deciding to be his wife. India had developed sides of his 
character that she had never admired. His self-com- 
placency, his censoriousness, his lack of subtlety, all grew 
vivid beneath a tropic sky; he seemed more indifferent 
than of old to what was passing in the minds of his 
fellows, more certain that he was right about them or 
that if he was wrong it didn’t matter. When proved 
wrong, he was particularly exasperating; he always man- 
aged to suggest that she needn’t have bothered to prove 
it. The point she made was never the relevant point, 
her arguments conclusive but barren, she was reminded 
that he had expert knowledge and she none, and that 


MOSQUE 81 


experience would not help her because she could not in- 
terpret it. A Public School, London University, a year 
at a crammer’s, a particular sequence of posts in a particu- 
lar province, a fall from a horse and a touch of fever 
were presented to her as the only training by which In- 
dians and all who reside in their country can be under- 
stood; the only training she could comprehend, that is 
to say, for of course above Ronny there stretched the 
higher realms of knowledge, inhabited by Callendars and 
Turtons, who had been not one year in the country but 
twenty and whose instincts were superhuman. For him- 
self he made no extravagant claims; she wished he would. 
It was the qualified bray of the callow official, the ‘I am 
not perfect, but ” that got on her nerves. 

How gross he had been at Mr. Fielding’s—spoiling 
the talk and walking off in the middle of the haunting 
song! As he drove them away in the tum-tum, her irrita- 
tion became unbearable, and she did not realize that much 
of it was directed against herself. She longed for an 
opportunity to fly out at him, and since he felt cross too, 
and they were both in India, an opportunity soon oc- 
curred. They had scarcely left the College grounds be- 
fore she heard him say to his mother, who was with 
him on the front seat, “‘ What was that about caves?” 
and she promptly opened fire. 

“Mrs. Moore, your delightful doctor has decided on 
a picnic, instead of a party in his house; we are to meet 
him out there—you, myself, Mr. Fielding, Professor 
Godbole—exactly the same party.” 

“Out where? ”’ asked Ronny. 

Eeunemyarabat Gaves, 

“Well, I’m blessed,’ he murmured after a pause. 
* Did he descend to any details? ”’ 

“He did not. If you had spoken to him, we could 
have arranged them.” 

He shook his head, laughing. 

“ Have I said anything funny? ”’ 





82 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“T was only thinking how the worthy doctor’s collar 
climbed up his neck.”’ 

“JT thought you were discussing the caves.” 

“So lam. Aziz was exquisitely dressed, from tie-pin 
to spats, but he had forgotten his back collar-stud, and 
there you have the Indian all over: inattention to detail; 
the fundamental slackness that reveals the race. Simi- 
larly, to ‘meet’ in the caves as if they were the clock 
at Charing Cross, when they’re miles from a station and 
each other.” 

“Have you been to them?” 

“No, but I know all about them, naturally.” 

“Oh, naturally!” 

“Are you too pledged to this expedition, mother? ” 

“Mother is pledged to nothing,’ said Mrs. Moore, 
rather unexpectedly. “‘ Certainly not to this polo. Will 
you drive up to the bungalow first, and drop me there, 
please? I prefer to rest.” 

“Drop me too,” said Adela. “I don’t want to watch 
polo either, ’'m sure.”’ 

“Simpler to drop the polo,’ said Ronny. ‘Tired and 
disappointed, he quite lost self-control, and added in a 
loud lecturing voice, “I won’t have you messing about 
with Indians any more! If you want to go to the Mara- 
bar Caves, you'll go under British auspices.” 

‘“T’ve never heard of these caves, I don’t know what 
or where they are,’”’ said Mrs. Moore, “ but I really can’t 
have ’’—she tapped the cushion beside her—* so much 
quarrelling and tiresomeness! ” 

The young people were ashamed. They dropped her 
at the bungalow and drove on together to the polo, feel- 
ing it was the least they could do. Their crackling bad 
humour left them, but the heaviness of their spirit re- 
mained; thunderstorms seldom clear the air. Miss 
Quested was thinking over her own behaviour, and didn’t 
like it at all. Instead of weighing Ronny and herself, 
and coming to a reasoned conclusion about marriage, she 


39 


MOSQUE 83 


had incidentally, in the course of a talk about mangoes, 
remarked to mixed company that she didn’t mean to stop 
in India. Which meant that she wouldn’t marry Ronny: 
but what a way to announce it, what a way for a civi- 
lized girl to behave! She owed him an explanation, but 
unfortunately there was nothing to explain. The “ thor- 
Gugh talk’ so dear to her principles and temperament 
had been postponed until too late. There seemed no 
point in being disagreeable to him and formulating her 
complaints against his character at this hour of the day, 
which was the evening. . . . The polo took place on the 
Maidan near the entrance of Chandrapore city. The sun 
was already declining and each of the trees held a premo- 
nition of night. They walked away from the governing 
group to a distant seat, and there, feeling that it was his 
due and her own, she forced out of herself the undigested 
remark: “We must have a thorough talk, Ronny, I’m 
afraid.” 

‘“‘ My temper’s rotten, I must apologize,” was his reply. 
“T didn’t mean to order you and mother about, but of 
course the way those Bengalis let you down this morn- 
ing annoyed me, and I don’t want that sort of thing 
to keep happening.” 

“It’s nothing to do with them that I... .” 

* No, but Aziz would make some similar muddle over 
the caves. He merit nothing by the invitation, I could 
tell by his voice; it’s just their way of being pleasant.” 

“Tt’s something very different, nothing to do with 
caves, that I wanted to talk over with you.” She gazed 
at the colourless grass. “I’ve finally decided we are not 
- going to be married, my dear boy.” 

The news hurt Ronny very much. He had heard Aziz 
announce that she would not return to the country, but 
had paid no attention to the remark, for he never dreamt 
that an Indian could be a channel of communication be- 
tween two English people. He controlled himself and 
said gently, ““ You never said we should marry, my dear 


84 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


girl; you never bound either yourself or me—don’t let 
this upset you.” 

She felt ashamed. How decent he was! He might 
force his opinions down her throat, but did not press her 
to an “engagement,” because he believed, like herself, in 
the sanctity of personal relationships: it was this that 
had drawn them together at their first meeting, which had 
occurred among the grand scenery of the English Lakes. 
Her ordeal was over, but she felt it should have been more 
painful and longer. Adela will not marry Ronny. It 
seemed slipping away like a dream. She said, “ But let 
us discuss things; it’s all so frightfully important, we 
mustn’t make false steps. J want next to hear your 
point of view about me—it might help us both.” 

His manner was unhappy and reserved. “I don’t 
much believe in this discussing—hbesides, I’m so dead with 
all this extra work Mohurram’s bringing, if you'll ex- 
CUsemIness 

“T only want everything to be absolutely clear between 
us, and to answer any questions you care to put to me 
on my conduct.” 

“But I haven’t got any questions. You’ve acted 
within your rights, you were quite right to come out and 
have a look at me doing my work, it was an excellent 
plan, and anyhow it’s no use talking further—we should 
only get up steam.” He felt angry and bruised; he was 
too proud to tempt her back, but he did not consider that 
she had behaved badly, because where his compatriots 
were concerned he had a generous mind. 

““T suppose that there is nothing else; it’s unpardon- 
able of me to have given you and your mother all this 
bother,” said Miss Quested heavily, and frowned up at 
the tree beneath which they were sitting. A little green 
bird was observing her, so brilliant and neat that it 
might have hopped straight out of a shop. On catching 
her eye it closed its own, gave a small skip and prepared 


MOSQUE : 85 


to go to bed. Some Indian wild bird. ‘ Yes, nothing 
else,’ she repeated, feeling that a profound and passion- 
ate speech ought to have been delivered by one or both 
of them. “ We’ve been awfully British over it, but I 
suppose that’s all right.” 

‘“* As we are British, I suppose it is.” 

*“ Anyhow we've not quarrelled, Ronny.” 

“Oh, that would have been too absurd. Why should 
we quarrel?” 

“T think we shall keep friends.” 

“T know we shall.” 

mauite So.” 

As soon as they had exchanged this admission, a wave 
of relief passed through them both, and then transformed 
itself into a wave of tenderness, and passed back. They 
were softened by their own honesty, and began to feel 
lonely and unwise. Experiences, not character, divided 
them; they were not dissimilar, as humans go; indeed, 
when compared with the people who stood nearest to them 
in point of space they became practically identical. The 
Bhil who was holding an officer’s polo pony, the Eura- 
sian who drove the Nawab Bahadur’s car, the Nawab 
Bahadur himself, the Nawab Bahadur’s debauched grand- 
son—none would have examined a difficulty so frankly 
and coolly. The mere fact of examination caused it to 
diminish. Of course they were friends, and for ever. 
“Do you know what the name of that green bird up 
above us is?” she asked, putting her shoulder rather 
nearer to his, 

eebee-cater-~ 

“Oh no, Ronny, it has red bars on its wings.” 

** Parrot,” he hazarded. 

“Good gracious no.” 

The bird in question dived into the dome of the tree. 
It was of no importance, yet they would have liked to 
identify it, it would somehow have solaced their hearts. 


86 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


But nothing in India is identifiable, the mere askiug of 
a question causes it to disappear or to merge in some- 
thing else. 

“McBryde has an illustrated bird book,” he said de- 
jectedly. “I’m no good at all at birds, in fact I’m use- 
less at any information outside my own job. It’s a great 
pity.” 

iO ail oval Matiselessva lL evenytning. 

“What do I hear?” shouted the Nawab Bahadur at 
the top of his voice, causing both of them to start. 
“What most improbable statement have I heard? An 
English lady useless? No, no, no, no, no.” He laughed 
genially, sure, within limits, of his welcome. 

“ Hallo, Nawab Bahadur! Been watching the polo 
again? ’’ said Ronny tepidly. 

““T have, sahib, I have.” 

“How do you do?” said Adela, likewise pulling her- 
self together. She held out her hand. The old gentle- 
man judged from so wanton a gesture that she was new 
to his country, but he paid little heed. Women who 
exposed their face became by that one act so mysterious 
to him that he took them at the valuation of their men 
folk rather than at his own. Perhaps they were not 
immoral, and anyhow they were not his affair. On see- 
ing the City Magistrate alone with a maiden at twilight, 
he had borne down on them with hospitable intent. He 
had a new little car, and wished to place it at their dis- 
posal ; the City Magistrate would decide whether the offer 
was acceptable. 

Ronny was by this time rather ashamed of his curt- 
ness to Aziz and Godbole, and here was an opportunity 
of showing that he could treat Indians with consideration 
when they deserved it. So he said to Adela, with the 
same sad friendliness that he had employed when dis- 
cussing the bird, “ Would half an hour’s spin entertain 
you at all?” 

“ Oughtn’t we to get back to the bungalow? ” 


MOSQUE 87 


“Why?” He gazed at her. 

“T think perhaps I ought to see your mother and dis- 
cuss future plans.” 

“That’s as you like, but there’s no hurry, is there 

“Let me take you to the bungalow, and first the little 
spin,’ cried the old man, and hastened to the car. 

“Tle may show you some aspect of the country I can’t, 
and he’s a real loyalist. I thought you might care for a 
bit of a change.” 

Determined to give him no more trouble, she agreed, 
but her desire to see India had suddenly decreased. There 
had been a factitious element in it. 

How should they seat themselves in the car? The ele- 
gant grandson had to be left behind. The Nawab Baha- 
dur got up in front, for he had no intention of neigh- 
bouring an English girl. ‘“ Despite my advanced years, I 
am learning to drive,’ he said. ‘ Man can learn every- 
thing if he will but try.’ And foreseeing a further 
difficulty, he added, “‘ I do not do the actual steering. I 
sit and ask my chauffeur questions, and thus learn the 
reason for everything that is done before I do it myself. 
By this method serious and J may say ludicrous accidents, 
such as befell one of my compatriots during that delight- 
ful reception at the English Club, are avoided. Our 
good Panna Lal! I hope, sahib, that great damage was 
not done to your flowers. Let us have our little spin 
down the Gangavati road. Half one league onwards!” 
He fell asleep. 

Ronny instructed the chauffeur to take the Marabar 
road rather than the Gangavati, since the latter was 
under repair, and settled himself down beside the lady 
he had lost. The car made a burring noise and rushed 
along a chaussée that ran upon an embankment above 
melancholy fields. Trees of a poor quality bordered the 
road, indeed the whole scene was inferior, and suggested 
that the countryside was too vast to admit of excellence. 
In vain did each item in it call out, ‘‘ Come, come.” 


ree 


88 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


There was not enough god to go round. The two young 
people conversed feebly and felt unimportant. When the 
darkness began, it seemed to well out of the meagre vege- 
tation, entirely covering the fields each side of them 
before it brimmed over the road. Ronny’s face grew 
dim—an event that always increased her esteem for his 
character. Her hand touched his, owing to a jolt, and 
one of the thrills so frequent in the animal kingdom 
passed between them, and announced that all their difh- 
culties were only a lovers’ quarrel. Each was too proud 
to increase the pressure, but neither withdrew it, and a 
spurious unity descended on them, as local and tempo- 
rary as the gleam that inhabits a firefly. It would vanish 
in a moment, perhaps to reappear, but the darkness is 
alone durable. And the night that encircled them, abso- 
lute as it seemed, was itself only a spurious unity, being 
modified by the gleams of day that leaked up round the 
edges of the earth, and by the stars. 

They gripped . . . bump, jump, a swerve, two wheels 
lifted in the air, brakes on, bump with tree at edge of 
embankment, standstill, An accident. <A _ slight one. 
Nobody hurt. The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried 
out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. 

“What's the damage?” enquired Ronny, after the 
moment’s pause that he permitted himself before taking 
charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be 
flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every 
inch an Englishman, replied, “ You give me five min- 
utes’ time, I'll take you any dam anywhere.” 

“Frightened, Adela?’ He released her hand. 

“Not a bit.” 

“I consider not to be frightened the height of folly,” 
cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. 

“Well, it’s all over now, tears are useless,” said Ronny, 
dismounting. “ We had some luck butting that tree.” 

“All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke 
cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes... 


MOSQUE 89 


’9 


enjoy ourselves—ok my merciful God . . .” His words 
died into Arabic again. 

“Wasn't the bridge. We skidded.” 

“ We didn’t skid,” said Adela, who had seen the cause 
of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it 
too. “ We ran into an animal.” 

A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was 
disproportionate and ridiculous. 

eAneanimal ¢.2 

“A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the 
right and hit us.” 

meDy Ove, she's tight,” Ronny exclaimedy, “The 
paint’s gone.” 

“ By Jove, sir, your lady is right,” echoed the Eurasian. 
Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door 
opened with difficulty. 

“Of course [’'m right. I saw its hairy back quite 
plainly.” 

“TI say, Adela, what was it?” 

“T don’t know the animals any better than the birds 
here—too big for a goat.” 

“ Exactly, too big for a goat . . .” said the old man. 

Ronny said, “Let’s go into this; let’s look for its 
tracks,” 

“Exactly; you wish to borrow this electric torch.” 

The English people walked a few steps back into the 
darkness, united and happy. Thanks to their youth and 
upbringing, they were not upset by the accident. They 
traced back the writhing of the tyres to the source of 
their disturbance. It was just after the exit from a 
bridge; the animal had probably come up out of the 
nullah. Steady and smooth ran the marks of the car, 
ribbons neatly nicked with lozenges, then all went mad. 
Certainly some external force had impinged, but the road 
had been used by too many objects for any one track to 
be legible, and the torch created such high lights and 
black shadows that they could not interpret what it re- 


a3 


90 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


vealed. Moreover, Adela in her excitement knelt and 
swept her skirts about, until it was she if anyone who 
appeared to have attacked the car. The incident was a 
great relief to them both. They forgot their abortive 
personal relationship, and felt adventurous as they mud- 
dled about in the dust. 

“TI believe it was-a buffalo,’ she called to their host, 
who had not accompanied them. 

SP Bbeses Yoa Bas 

“Unless it was a hyena.” 

Ronny approved this last conjecture. Hyenas prowl in 
nullahs and headlights dazzle them. 

“ Excellent, a hyena,” said the Indian with an angry 
irony and a gesture at the night. “ Mr. Harris!” 

“ Half a mo-ment. Give me ten minutes’ time.” 

*‘ Sahib says hyena.” 

“Don’t worry Mr. Harris. He saved us from a nasty 
smash. Harris, well done! ” 

“ A smash, sahib, that would not have taken place had 
he obeyed and taken us Gangavati side, instead of Mara- 
bar.”’ 

“My fault that. I told him to come this way because 
the road’s better. Mr. Lesley has made it pukka right 
up to the hills.” 

“Ah, now I begin to understand.” Seeming to pull 
himself together, he apologized slowly and elaborately 
for the accident. Ronny murmured, “ Not at all,’ but 
apologies were his due, and should have started sooner: 
because English people are so calm at a crisis, it is not 
to be assumed that they are unimportant. The Nawab 
Bahadur had not come out very well. 

At that moment a large car approached from the 
opposite direction. Ronny advanced a few steps down 
the road, and with authority in his voice and gesture 
stopped it. It bore the inscription ‘‘ Mudkul State” 
across its bonnet. All friskiness and friendliness, Miss 
Derek sat inside. 


MOSQUE gI 


“Mr. Heasiop, Miss Quested, what are you holding up 
an innocent female for?” 

“ We've had a breakdown.” 

“But how putrid!” 

“We ran into a hyena!” 

“How absolutely rotten!” 

“Can you give us a lift?” 

“Yes, indeed.”’ 

“Take me too,’’ said the Nawab Bahadur. 

“Heh, what about me?” cried Mr. Harris. 

* Now what’s all this? I’m not an omnibus,” said Miss 
Derek with decision. “I’ve a harmonium and two dogs 
in here with me as it is. Tl take three of you if one’ll 
sit in front and nurse a pug. No more.” 

*T will sit in front,” said the Nawab Bahadur. 

“Then hop in: I’ve no notion who you are.” 

“ Heh no, what about my dinner? I can’t be left alone 
all the night.”” Trying to look and feel like a European, 
the chauffeur interposed aggressively. He still wore a 
topi, despite the darkness, and his face, to which the 
Ruling Race had contributed little beyond bad teeth, 
peered out of it pathetically, and seemed to say, “‘ What’s 
it all about? Don’t worry me so, you blacks and whites. 
Here I am, stuck in dam India same as you, and you 
got to fit me in better than this.” 

* Nussu will bring you out some suitable dinner upon 
a bicycle,’ said the Nawab Bahadur, who had regained 
his usual dignity. ‘I shall despatch him with all possible 
speed. Meanwhile, repair my car.” 

They sped off, and Mr. Harris, after a reproachful 
glance, squatted down upon his hams. When English 
and Indians were both present, he grew self-conscious, 
because he did not know to whom he belonged. For a 
little he was vexed by opposite currents in his blood, 
then they blended, and he belonged to no one but him- 
self. 

But Miss Derek was in tearing spirits. She had suc- 


Q2 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


ceeded in stealing the Mudkul car. Her Maharajah 
would be awfully sick, but she didn’t mind, he could sack 
her if he liked. “I don’t believe in these people letting 
you down,” she said. “If I didn’t snatch like the devil, 
I should be nowhere. He doesn’t want the car, silly 
fool! Surely it’s to the credit of his State I should be 
seen about in it at Chandrapore during my leave. He 
ought to look at it that way. Anyhow he’s got to look 
at it that way. My Maharani’s different—my Maharani’s 
a dear. That’s her fox terrier, poor little devil. I fished 
them out both with the driver. Imagine taking dogs to 
a Chiefs’ Conference! As sensible as taking Chiefs, 
perhaps.” She shrieked with laughter. ‘“ The har- 
monium—the harmonium’s my little mistake, I own. 
They rather had me over the harmonium. I[ meant it 
to stop on the train. Oh lor’!” 

Ronny laughed with restraint. He did not approve 
of English people taking service under the Native States, 
where they obtain a certain amount of influence, but at 
the expense of the general prestige. The humorous tri- 
umphs of a free lance are of no assistance to an adminis- 
trator, and he told the young lady that she would outdo 
Indians at their own game if she went on much longer. 

“They always sack me before that happens, and then 
I get another job. The whole of India seethes with 
Maharanis and Ranis and Begums who clamour for such 
assiicay 

“Really. I had no idea.” 

“How could you have any idea, Mr. Heaslop? What 
should he know about Maharanis, Miss Quested? Noth- 
ing. At least I should hope not.” 

“T understand those big people are not particularly 
interesting,” said Adela, quietly, disliking the young 
woman’s tone. Her hand touched Ronny’s again in the 
darkness, and to the animal thrill there was now added 
a coincidence of opinion. 

“Ah, there you’re wrong. They’re priceless.” 


MOSQUE 93 


“T would scarcely call her wrong,’ broke out the 
Nawab Bahadur, from his isolation on the front seat, 
whither they had relegated him. “A Native State, a 
Hindu State, the wife of a ruler of a Hindu State, may 
beyond doubt be a most excellent lady, and let it not be 
for a moment supposed that I suggest anything against 
the character of Her Highness the Maharani of Mudkul. 
But I fear she will be uneducated, I fear she will be super- 
stitious. Indeed, how could she be otherwise? What 
opportunity of education has such a lady had? Oh, 
superstition is terrible, terrible! oh, it is the great defect 
in our Indian character! ’”’—and as if to point his criti- 
cism, the lights of the civil station appeared on a rise 
to the right. He grew more and more voluble. “Oh, 
it is the duty of each and every citizen to shake super- 
stition off, and though I have little experience of Hindu 
States, and none of this particular one, namely Mudkul 
(the Ruler, I fancy, has a salute of but eleven guns )— 
yet I cannot imagine that they have been as successful 
as British India, where we see reason and orderliness 
spreading in every direction, like a most health-giving 
flood!” 

Miss Derek said “ Golly!” 

Undeterred by the expletive, the old man swept on. 
His tongue had been loosed and his mind had several 
points to make. He wanted to endorse Miss Quested’s 
remark that big people are not interesting, because he 
was bigger himself than many an independent chief; at 
the same time, he must neither remind nor inform her 
that he was big, lest she felt she had committed a dis- 
courtesy. This was the groundwork of his oration; 
worked in with it was his gratitude to Miss Derek for 
the lift, his willingness to hold a repulsive dog in his 
arms, and his general regret for the trouble he had caused 
the human race during the evening. Also he wanted to 
be dropped near the city to get hold of his cleaner, and 
to see what mischief his grandson was up to. As he 


94 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


wove all these anxieties into a single rope, he suspected 
that his audience felt no interest, and that the City Magis- 
trate fondled either maiden behind the cover of the har- 
monium, but good breeding compelled him to continue; 
it was nothing to him if they were bored, because he did 
not know what boredom is, and it was nothing to him if 
they were licentious, because God has created all races 
to be different. The accident was over, and his life, 
equably useful, distinguished, happy, ran on as before 
and expressed itself in streams of well-chosen words. 

When this old geyser left them, Ronny made no com- 
ment, but talked lightly about polo; Turton had taught 
him that it is sounder not to discuss a man at once, and 
he reserved what he had to say on the Nawab’s character 
until later in the evening. His hand, which he had re- 
moved to say good-bye, touched Adela’s again; she 
caressed it definitely, he responded, and their firm and 
mutual pressure surely meant something. They looked 
at each other when they reached the bungalow, for Mrs. 
Moore was inside it. It was for Miss Quested to speak, 
and she said nervously, “‘ Ronny, I should like to take 
back what I said on the Maidan.’ He assented, and they 
became engaged to be married in consequence. 

Neither had foreseen such a consequence. She had 
meant to revert to her former condition of important 
and cultivated uncertainty, but it had passed out of her 
reach at its appropriate hour. Unlike the green bird or 
the hairy animal, she was labelled now. She felt humili- 
ated again, for she deprecated labels, and she felt too that 
there should have been another scene between her lover 
and herself at this point, something dramatic and 
lengthy. He was pleased instead of distressed, he was 
surprised, but he had really nothing to say. What indeed 
is there to say? To be or not to be married, that was 
the question, and they had decided it in the affirmative. 

“Come along and let’s tell the mater all this ’—open- 
ing the perforated zinc door that protected the bungalow 


MOSQUE 95 


from the swarms of winged creatures. The noise woke 
the mater up. She had been dreaming of the absent 
children who were so seldom mentioned, Ralph and Stella, 
and did not at first grasp what was required of her. She 
too had become used to thoughtful procrastination, and 
felt alarmed when it came to an end. 

When the announcement was over, he made a gracious 
and honest remark. ‘“ Look here, both of you, see India 
if you like and as you like—I know I made myself rather 
ridiculous at Fielding’s, but... it’s different now. I 
wasn’t quite sure of myself.” 

“My duties here are evidently finished, I don’t want 
to see India now; now for my passage back,” was Mrs. 
Moore’s thought. She reminded herself of all that a 
happy marriage means, and of her own happy mar- 
riages, one of which had produced Ronny. Adela’s 
parents had also been happily married, and excellent it 
was to see the incident repeated by the younger genera- 
tion. On and on! the number of such unions would 
certainly increase as education spread and ideals grew 
loftier, and characters firmer. But she was tired by her 
visit to Government College, her feet ached, Mr. Fielding 
had walked too fast and far, the young people had an- 
noyed her in the tum-tum, and given her to suppose they 
were breaking with each other, and though it was all right 
now she could not speak as enthusiastically of wedlock 
or of anything as she should have done. Ronny was 
suited, now she must go home and help the others, if they 
wished. She was past marrying herself, even unhappily ; 
her function was to help others, her reward to be in- 
formed that she was sympathetic. Elderly ladies must 
not expect more than this. 

They dined alone. There was much pleasant and affec- 
tionate talk about the future. Later on they spoke of 
passing events, and Ronny reviewed and recounted the 
day from his own point of view. It was a different day 
from the women’s because while they had enjoyed them- 


96 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


selves or thought, he had worked. Mohurram was ap- 
proaching, and as usual the Chandrapore Mohammedans 
were building paper towers of a size too large to pass 
under the branches of a certain pepul tree. One knew 
what happened next; the tower stuck, a Mohammedan 
climbed up the pepul and cut the branch off, the Hindus 
protested, there was a religious riot, and Heaven knew 
what, with perhaps the troops sent for. There had been 
deputations and conciliation committees under the aus- 
pices of Turton, and all the normal work of Chandrapore 
had been hung up. Should the procession take another 
route, or should the towers be shorter? The Moham- 
medans offered the former, the Hindus insisted on the 
latter. The Collector had favoured the Hindus, until 
he suspected that they had artificially bent the tree nearer 
the ground. They said it sagged naturally. Measure- 
ments, plans, an official visit to the spot. But Ronny 
had not disliked his day, for it proved that the British 
were necessary to India; there would certainly have been 
bloodshed without them. His voice grew complacent 
again; he was here not to be pleasant but to keep the 
peace, and now that Adela had promised to be his wife, 
she was sure to understand. 

“What does our old gentleman of the car think?” 
she asked, and her negligent tone was exactly what he 
desired. 

“ Our old gentleman is helpful and sound, as he always 
is over public affairs, You’ve seen in him our show 
Indian.” 

“ Have I really? ” 

“I’m afraid so. Incredible, aren’t they, even the best 
of them? They’re all—they all forget their back collar 
studs sooner or later. You've had to do with three sets 
of Indians to-day, the Bhattacharyas, Aziz, and this chap, 
and it really isn’t a coincidence that they’ve all let you 
down.” 


MOSQUE SY) 


“J like Aziz, Aziz is my real friend,” Mrs. Moore 
interposed. 

‘““ When the animal runs into us the Nawab loses his 
head, deserts his unfortunate chauffeur, intrudes upon 
Miss Derek . . . no great crimes, no great crimes, but 
no white man would have done it.” 

“What animal?” 

“Oh, we had a small accident on the Marabar Road. 
Adela thinks it was a hyena.” 

-Anmaccident? ~ she cried. 

“Nothing; no one hurt. Our excellent host awoke 
much rattled from his dreams, appeared to think it was 
our fault, and chanted exactly, exactly.” 

Mrs. Moore shivered, “A ghost!” But the idea of a 
ghost scarcely passed her lips. The young people did not 
take it up, being occupied with their own outlooks, and 
deprived of support it perished, or was reabsorped into 
the part of the mind that seldom speaks. 

“Yes, nothing criminal,’ Ronny summed up, “ but 
there’s the native, and there’s one of the reasons why 
we don’t admit him to our clubs, and how a decent girl 
like Miss Derek can take service under natives puzzles 
me. ... But I must get on with my work. Krishna!” 
Krishna was the peon who should have brought the files 
from his office. He had not turned up, and a terrific 
row ensued. Ronny stormed, shouted, howled, and only 
the experienced observer could tell that he was not angry, 
did not much want the files, and only made a row because 
it was the custom. Servants, quite understanding, ran 
slowly in circles, carrying hurricane lamps. Krishna the 
earth, Krishna the stars replied, until the Englishman 
was appeased by their echoes, fined the absent peon eight 
annas, and sat down to his arrears in the next room. 

“Will you play Patience with your future mother-in- 
law, dear Adela, or does it seem too tame? ” 

“T should like to—I don’t feel a bit excited—I’m just 


98 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


glad it’s settled up at last, but I’m not conscious of vast 
changes. We are all three the same people still.” 

‘““That’s much the best feeling to have.’’ She dealt 
out the first row of “ demon.” 

‘““T suppose so,” said the girl thoughtfully. 

“T feared at Mr. Fielding’s that it might be settled the 
other way . . . black knave ona red queen... .” They 
chatted gently about the game. 

Presently Adela said: “You heard me tell Aziz and 
Godbole I wasn’t stopping in their country. I didn’t 
mean it, so why did I say it? I feel I haven’t been— 
frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It’s as if 
I got everything out of proportion. You have been so 
very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, 
but somehow I haven’t been... . Mrs. Moore, if one 
isn’t absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?” 

She continued to lay out her cards. The words were 
obscure, but she understood the uneasiness that produced 
them. She had experienced it twice herself, during her 
own engagements—this vague contrition and doubt. All 
had come right enough afterwards and doubtless would 
this time—marriage makes most things right enough. “TI 
wouldn’t worry,” she said. “It’s partly the odd sur- 
roundings; you and I keep on attending to trifles in- 
stead of what’s important; we are what the people here 
call ‘ new.’ ” 

“You mean that my bothers are mixed up with 
Tadiae) 

“ Tndia’s ” She stopped. 

“What made you call it a ghost?” 

“ Call what a ghost? ” 

“The animal thing that hit us. Didn’t you say ‘ Oh, 
a ghost,’ in passing.” 

“T couldn’t have been thinking of what I was saying.” 

“It was probably a hyena, as a matter of fact.” 

*¢ Ah, very likely.” 

And they went on with their Patience. Down in 





MOSQUE 99 


Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He 
sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building 
which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court 
that always improvises itself round Indians of position. 
As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a 
fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline 
itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his 
diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years 
previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it 
over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had 
been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur 
was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double 
the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man 
continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the 
scene of his death. None of the English people knew of 
this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret com- 
municable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in 
horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others 
into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and 
honoured guests. He repeated, “If I had been killed, 
what matter? it must happen sometime; but they who 
trusted me ” The company shuddered and invoked 
the mercy of God. Only Aziz held aloof, because a per- 
sonal experience restrained him: was it not by despising 
ghosts that he had come to know Mrs. Moore? “ You 
know, Nureddin,’ he whispered to the grandson—an 
effeminate youth whom he seldom met, always liked, and 
invariably forgot—“ you know, my dear fellow, we 
Moslems simply must get rid of these superstitions, or 
India will never advance. How long must I hear of the 
savage pig upon the Marabar Road?”’ Nureddin looked 
down. Aziz continued: “ Your grandfather belongs to 
another generation, and I respect and love the old gentle- 
man, as you know. I say nothing against him, only that 
it is wrong for us, because we are young. I want you to 
promise me—Nureddin, are you listening ?—not to be- 
lieve in Evil Spirits, and if I die (for my health grows 





100 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


very weak) to bring up my three children to disbelieve in 
them too.” Nureddin smiled, and a suitable answer rose 
to his pretty lips, but before he could make it the car 
arrived, and his grandfather took him away. 

The game of Patience up in the civil lines went on 
longer than this. Mrs. Moore continued to murmur 
“Red ten on a black knave,’”’ Miss Quested to assist her, 
and to intersperse among the intricacies of the play details 
about the hyena, the engagement, the Maharani of 
Mudkul, the Bhattacharyas, and the day generally, whose 
rough desiccated surface acquired as it receded a definite 
outline, as India itself might, could it be viewed from the 
moon. Presently the players went to bed, but not before 
other people had woken up elsewhere, people whose emo- 
tions they could not share, and whose existence they 
ignored. Never tranquil, never perfectly dark, the night 
wore itself away, distinguished from other nights by two 
or three blasts of wind, which seemed to fall perpendicu- 
larly out of the sky and to bounce back into it, hard and 
compact, leaving no freshness behind them: the hot 
weather was approaching. 


CHAPTER IX 


ZIZ fell ill as he foretold—slightly ill, Three days 
later he lay abed in his bungalow, pretending to be 

very ill. It was a touch of fever, which he would have 
neglected if there was anything important at the hospital. 
Now and then he groaned and thought he should die, but 
did not think so for long, and a very little diverted him. 
It was Sunday, always an equivocal day in the East, and 
an excuse for slacking. He could hear church bells as 
he drowsed, both from the civil station and from the 
missionaries out beyond the slaughter house—different 
bells and rung with different intent, for one set was calling 
firmly to Anglo- -India, and the other feebly to mankind. 


MOSQUE IOI 


He did not object to the first set; the other he ignored, 
knowing their inefficiency. Old Mr. Graysford and 
young Mr. Sorley made converts during a famine, be- 
cause they distributed food; but when times improved 
they were naturally left alone again, and though surprised 
and aggrieved each time this happened, they never learnt 
wisdom, “No Englishman understands us except Mr. 
Fielding,” he thought; “‘ but how shall I see him again? 
If he entered this room the disgrace of it would kill me.” 
He called to Hassan to clear up, but Hassan, who was 
testing his wages by ringing them on the step of the 
verandah, found it possible not to hear him; heard and 
didn’t hear, just as Aziz had called and hadn’t called. 
Benet s India lallvover .... how like sus’) 2 there we 
are...” He dozed again, and his thoughts wandered 
over the varied surface of life. 

Gradually they steadied upon a certain spot—the Bot- 
tomless Pit according to missionaries, but he had never 
regarded it as more than a dimple. Yes, he did want to 
spend an evening with some girls, singing and all that, 
the vague jollity that would culminate in voluptuousness, 
Yes, that was what he did want. How could it be man- 
aged? If Major Callendar had been an Indian, he would 
have remembered what young men are, and granted two 
or three days’ leave to Calcutta without asking questions. 
But the Major assumed either that his subordinates were 
made of ice, or that they repaired to the Chandrapore 
bazaars—disgusting ideas both. It was only Mr. Field- 
ing who 

“Hassan!” 

The servant came running. 

“Look at those flies, brother;” and he pointed to the 
horrible mass that hung from the ceiling. The nucieus 
was a wire which had been inserted as a homage to elec- 
tricity. Electricity had paid no attention, and a colony 
of eye-flies had come instead and blackened the coils with 
their bodies. 





102 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


‘“‘ Huzoor, those are flies.” 
“‘ Good, good, they are, excellent, but why have I called 
ou re’ 
ae To drive them elsewhere,” said Hassan, after painful 
thought. 

“Driven elsewhere, they always return.”’ 

ELLA ZOOT 

“You must make some arrangement against flies ; that 
is why you are my servant,” said Aziz gently. 

Hassan would call the little boy to borrow the step- 
ladder from Mahmoud Ali’s house; he would order the 
cook to light the Primus stove and heat water; he would 
personally ascend the steps with a bucket in his arms, and 
dip the end of the coil into it. 

“Good, very good. Now what have you to do?”’ 

* Kill flies.” 

meaoOd: #0 tam 

Hassan withdrew, the plan almost lodged in his head, 
and began to look for the little boy. Not finding him, 
his steps grew slower, and he stole back to his post on the 
verandah, but did not go on testing his rupees, in case 
his master heard them clink. On twittered the Sunday 
bells; the East had returned to the East via the suburbs 
of England, and had become ridiculous during the de- 
tour. 

Aziz continued to think about beautiful women. 

His mind here was hard and direct, though not brutal. 
He had learnt all he needed concerning his own consti- 
tution many years ago, thanks to the social order into 
which he had been born, and when he came to study 
medicine he was repelled by the pedantry and fuss with 
which Europe tabulates the facts of sex. Science seemed 
to discuss everything from the wrong end. It didn’t 
interpret his experiences when he found them in a Ger- 
man manual, because by being there they ceased to be his 
experiences. What he had been told by his father or 
mother or had picked up from servants—it was informa- 


MOSQUE 103 


tion of that sort that he found useful, and handed on as 
occasion offered to others. 

But he must not bring any disgrace on his children by 
some silly escapade. Imagine if it got about that he was 
not respectable! His professional position too must be 
considered, whatever Major Callendar thought. Aziz up- - 
held the proprieties, though he did not invest them with 
any moral halo, and it was here that he chiefly differed 
from an Englishman. His conventions were social. 
There is no harm in deceiving society as long as she does 
not find you out, because it is only when she finds you 
out that you have harmed her; she is not like a friend or 
God, who are injured by the mere existence of unfaith- 
fulness. Quite clear about this, he meditated what type 
of lie he should tell to get away to Calcutta, and had 
thought of a man there who could be trusted to send him 
a wire and a letter that he could show to Major Cal- 
lendar, when the noise of wheels was heard in his com- 
pound. Someone had called to enquire. The thought of 
sympathy increased his fever, and with a sincere sa 
he wrapped himself in his quilt, 

““ Aziz, my dear fellow, we are greatly concerned,” said 
Hamidullah’s voice. One, two, three, four bumps, as 
people sat down upon his bed. 

“When a doctor falls ill it is a serious matter,” said the 
voice of Mr. Syed Mohammed, the assistant engineer. 

* When an engineer falls ill, it is equally important,” 
said the voice of Mr. Hag, a police inspector. 

“Oh yes, we are all jolly important, our salaries prove 
1th4 

“Dr. Aziz took tea with our Principal last Thursday 
afternoon,” piped Rafi, the engineer’s nephew. “ Pro- 
fessor Godbole, who also attended, has sickened too, 
which seems rather a curious thing, sir, does it not?” 

Flames of suspicion leapt up in the breast of each man. 
“ Humbug!” exclaimed Hamidullah, in authoritative 
tones, quenching them. 


104. A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“ Humbug, most certainly,” echoed the others, ashamed 
of themselves. The wicked schoolboy, having failed to 
start a scandal, lost confidence and stood up with his 
back to the wall. 

“Is Professor Godbole ill?’ enquired Aziz, penetrated 
by the news. “I am sincerely sorry.” Intelligent and 
compassionate, his face peeped out of the bright crimson 
folds of the quilt. “How do you do, Mr. Syed 
Mohammed, Mr. Haq? How very kind of you to en- 
quire after my health! How do you do, Hamidullah? 
But you bring me bad news. What is wrong with him, 
the excellent fellow? ”’ 

“Why don’t you answer, Rafi? You're the great au- 
thority,” said his uncle. 

“Yes, Rafi’s the great man,” said Hamidullah, rubbing 
it in. “ Rafi is the Sherlock Holmes of Chandrapore. 
Speak up, Rafi.” 

Less than the dust, the schoolboy murmured the word 
“ Diarrhea,” but took courage as soon as it had been 
uttered, for it improved his position. Flames of suspicion 
shot up again in the breasts of his elders, though in a 
different direction. Could what was called diarrhcea 
really be an early case of cholera? 

“If this is so, this is a very serious thing: this is 
scarcely the end of March. Why have I not been in- 
formed cecticd zz) 

= orebPanna«lvaljattends himssir.< 

“Oh yes, both Hindus; there we have it; they hang 
together like flies and keep everything dark. Rafi, come 
here. Sit down. Tell me all the details. Is there vomit- 
ing also?” 

“Oh yes indeed, sir, and the serious pains.” 

“That settles it. In twenty-four hours he will be 
dead.” 

Everybody looked and felt shocked, but Professor God- 
bole had diminished his appeal by linking himself with a 
co-religionist. He moved them less than when he had 


MOSQUE 105 


appeared as a suffering individual. Before long they 
began to condemn him as a source of infection. ‘“ All 
illness proceeds from Hindus,” Mr. Haq said. Mr. Syed 
Mohammed had visited religious fairs, at Allahabad and 
at Ujjain, and described them with biting scorn. At 
Allahabad there was flowing water, which carried im- 
purities away, but at Ujjain the little river Sipra was 
banked up, and thousands of bathers deposited their 
germs in the pool. He spoke with disgust of the hot sun, 
the cowdung and marigold flowers, and the encampment 
of saddhus, some of whom strode stark naked through 
the streets. Asked what was the name of the chief idol at 
Ujjain, he replied that he did not know, he had disdained 
to enquire, he really could not waste his time over such 
trivialities. His outburst took some time, and in his ex- 
citement he fell into Punjabi (he came from that side) 
and was unintelligible. 

Aziz liked to hear his religion praised. It soothed the 
surface of his mind, and allowed beautiful images to form 
beneath. When the engineer’s noisy tirade was finished, 
he said, “ That is exactly my own view.” He held up 
his hand, palm outward, his eyes began to glow, his heart 
to fill with tenderness. Issuing still farther from his 
quilt, he recited a poem by Ghalib. It had no connection 
with anything that had gone before, but it came from his 
heart and spoke to theirs. They were overwhelmed by ~ 
its pathos; pathos, they agreed, is the highest quality in 
art; a poem should touch the hearer with a sense of his 
own weakness, and should institute some comparison be- 
tween mankind and flowers. The squalid bedroom grew. 
quiet; the silly intrigues, the gossip, the shallow discon- 
tent were stilled, while words accepted as immortal filled 
the indifferent air. Not as a call to battle, but as a 
calm assurance came the feeling that India was one; 
Moslem; always had been; an assurance that lasted until 
they looked out of the door. Whatever Ghalib had felt, 
he had anyhow lived in India, and this consolidated it 


106 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


for them: he had gone with his own tulips and roses, but 
tulips and roses do not go. And the sister kingdoms 
of the north—Arabia, Persia, Ferghana, Turkestan— 
stretched out their hands as he sang, sadly, because all 
beauty is sad, and greeted ridiculous Chandrapore, where 
every street and house was divided against itself, and 
told her that she was a continent and a unity. 

Of the company, only Hamidullah had any compre- 
hension of poetry. The minds of the others were inferior 
and rough. Yet they listened with pleasure, because lit- 
erature had not been divorced from their civilization. 
The police inspector, for instance, did not feel that Aziz 
had degraded himself by reciting, nor break into the 
cheery guffaw with which an Englishman averts the in- 
fection of beauty. He just sat with his mind empty, 
and when his thoughts, which were mainly ignoble, flowed 
back into it they had a pleasant freshness. The poem 
had done no “ good” to anyone, but it was a passing 
reminder, a breath from the divine lips of beauty, a 
nightingale between two worlds of dust. Less explicit 
than the call to Krishna, it voiced our loneliness never- 
theless, our isolation, our need for the Friend who never 
comes yet is not entirely disproved. Aziz it left thinking 
about women again, but in a different way: less definite, 
more intense. Sometimes poetry had this effect on him, 
sometimes it only increased his local desires, and he never 
knew beforehand which effect would ensue: he could 
discover no rule for this or for anything else in life. 

Hamidullah had called in on his way to a worrying 
committee of notables, nationalist in tendency, where 
Hindus, Moslems, two Sikhs, two Parsis, a Jain, and a 
Native Christian tried to like one another more than 
came natural to them. As long as someone abused the 
English, all went well, but nothing constructive had been 
achieved, and if the English were to leave India, the com- 
mittee would vanish also. He was glad that Aziz, whom 
he loved and whose family was connected with his own, 


MOSQUE 107 


took no interest in politics, which ruin the character and 
career, yet nothing can be achieved without them. He 
thought of Cambridge—sadly, as of another poem that 
had ended. How happy he had been there, twenty years 
ago! Politics had not mattered in Mr. and Mrs. Ban- 
nister’s rectory. There, games, work, and pleasant so- 
ciety had interwoven, and appeared to be sufficient sub- 
structure for a national life. Here all was wire-pulling 
and fear. Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq—he 
couldn’t even trust them, although they had come in his 
carriage, and the schoolboy was a scorpion, Bending 
down, he said, “ Aziz, Aziz, my dear boy, we must be 
going, we are already late. Get well quickly, for I do 
not know what our little circle would do without you.” 

“TI shall not forget those affectionate words,” replied 
Aziz. 

““ Add mine to them,” said the engineer. 

“Thank you, Mr. Syed Mohammed, I will.” 

een ndeimine; oh eld esite accept, mine, 1 cried) the 
others, stirred each according to his capacity towards 
goodwill. Little ineffectual unquenchable flames! The 
company continued to sit on the bed and to chew sugar- 
cane, which Hassan had run for into the bazaar, and Aziz 
drank a cup of spiced milk. Presently there was the 
sound of another carriage. Dr. Panna Lal had arrived, 
driven by horrid Mr. Ram Chand. The atmosphere of 
a sick-room was at once re-established, and the invalid 
retired under his quilt. 

“Gentlemen, you will excuse, I have come to enquire 
by Major Callendar’s orders,” said the Hindu, nervous 
of the den of fanatics into which his curiosity had called 
him. 

“Here he lies,” said Hamidullah, indicating the pros- 
trate form. 

“Dr. Aziz, Dr. Aziz, I come to enquire.” 

Aziz presented an expressionless face to the ther- 
mometer. 


108 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“Your hand also, please.’’ He took it, gazed at the 
flies on the ceiling, and finally announced, “‘ Some tem- 
perature.” 

“TI think not much,” said Ram Chand, desirous of 
fomenting trouble. 

“Some; he should remain in bed,” repeated Dr. Panna 
Lal, and shook the thermometer down, so that its altitude 
remained for ever unknown. He loathed his young col- 
league since the disasters with Dapple, and he would 
have liked to do him a bad turn and report to Major Cal- 
lendar that he was shamming. But he might want a 
day in bed himself soon,—besides, though Major Cal- 
lendar always believed the worst of natives, he never be- 
lieved them when they carried-tales about one another. 
Sympathy seemed the safer course. ‘‘ How is stomach?” 
he enquired, “how head?” And catching sight of the 
empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. 

“This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to 
call, Doctor Sahib,” said Hamidullah, buttering him up 
a bit. 

“Tt is only my duty.” 

“We know how busy you are.” 

* Yes, that is true.” 

“ And how much illness there is in the city.”’ 

The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he ad- 
mitted that there was or was not illness, either statement 
might be used against him. “ There is always illness,” 
he replied, “and I am always busy—it is a doctor’s 
nature.” 

“He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Gov- 
ernment College now,” said Ram Chand. 

“You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps? ”’ 

The doctor looked professional and was silent. 

“We hope his diarrhcea is ceasing.” 

“ He progresses, but not from diarrhcea.” 

“We are in some anxiety over him—he and Dr. Aziz 


MOSQUE 109 


are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his 
complaint we should be grateful to you.” 

After a cautious pause he said, ‘‘ Hemorrhoids.” 

“And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera,” hooted 
Aziz, unable to restrain himself. 

“Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?” cried the 
doctor, greatly fussed. ‘Who spreads such untrue re- 
ports about my patients? ”’ 

Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. 

““T hear cholera, [ hear bubonic plague, I hear every 
species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. 
This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of 
them ought to be discovered and punished authorita- 
tively.” 

“Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us 
up with all this humbug? ”’ 

The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told 
him, also that the bad English grammar the Government 
obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for 
words, and so led scholars into mistakes. 

“That is no reason you should bring a charge against a 
doctor,” said Ram Chand. 

“Exactly, exactly,’ agreed Hamidullah, anxious to 
avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and 
so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked 
cross, and ready to fly out. “ You must apologize prop- 
erly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it,” he said. ‘“ You 
have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you 
have caused this gentleman by your carelessness.” 

“It is only a boy,” said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. 

“Even boys must learn,” said Ram Chand. 

“Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I 
think,” said Syed Mohammed suddenly. 

“Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the ad- 
vantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press.” 

“Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in 
the Courts any longer.” 


110 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


Their voices rose. They attacked one another with 
obscure allusions and had a silly quarrel. Hamidullah 
and the doctor tried to make peace between them. In 
the midst of the din someone said, “I say! Is he ill or 
isn’t he ill?” Mr. Fielding had entered unobserved. All 
rose to their feet, and Hassan, to do an Englishman 
honour, struck up with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies. 

Aziz said, “ Sit down,” coldly. What a room! What 
a meeting! Squalor and ugly talk, the floor strewn with 
fragments of cane and nuts, and spotted with ink, the 
pictures crooked upon the dirty walls, no punkah! He 
hadn’t meant to live like this or among these third-rate 
people. And in his confusion he thought only of the in- 
significant Rafi, whom he had laughed at, and allowed to 
be teased. The boy must be sent away happy, or hospi- 
tality would have failed, along the whole line. 

“Tt is good of Mr. Fielding to condescend to visit our 
friend,’ said the police inspector. “‘ We are touched by 
this great kindness.” 

“ Don’t talk to him like that, he doesn’t want it, and 
he doesn’t want three chairs; he’s not three Englishmen,” 
he flashed. ‘‘ Rafi, come here. Sit down again. I’m 
delighted you could come with Mr. Hamidullah, my 
dear boy; it will help me to recover, seeing you.” 

‘Forgive my mistakes,” said Rafi, to consolidate him- 
self. 

“Well, are you ill, Aziz, or aren’t you?” Fielding 
repeated. 

“No doubt Major Callendar has told you that I am 
shamming.” 

“Well, are you?” The company laughed, friendly 
and pleased. “ An Englishman at his best,” they thought ; 
“so genial.” 

“Enquire from Dr. Panna Lal.” 

“You’re sure I don’t tire you by stopping? ”’ 

“Why, no! There are six people present in my small 
toom already. Please remain seated, if you will excuse 


MOSQUE II 


the informality.” He turned away and continued to ad- 
dress Rafi, who was terrified at the arrival of his Prin- 
cipal, remembered that he had tried to spread slander 
about him, and yearned to get away. 

“ He is ill and he is not ill,” said Hamidullah, offering 
a cigarette. ““ And I suppose that most of us are in that 
same case.” 

Fielding agreed; he and the pleasant sensitive barrister 
got on well. They were fairly intimate and beginning to 
trust each other. 

“The whole world looks to be dying, still it doesn’t die, | 
SO we must assume the existence of a beneficent Provi- 
dence.” | 

“Oh, that is true, how true!” said the policeman, 
thinking religion had been praised. 

“ Does Mr. Fielding think it’s true? ”’ 

“Think which true? The world isn’t dying. I’m cer- 
tain of that!” 

“No, no—the existence of Providence.” 

“ Well, I don’t believe in Providence.” 

“ But how then can you believe in God?” asked Syed 
Mohammed. 

“T don’t believe in God.” 

A tiny movement as of “I told you so!” passed round 
the company, and Aziz looked up for an instant, scan- 
dalized. “Is it correct that most are atheists in England 
now?” Hamidullah enquired. 

“The educated thoughtful people? I should say so, 
though they don’t like the name. The truth is that the 
West doesn’t bother much over belief and disbelief in 
these days. Fifty years ago, or even when you and [I 
were young, much more fuss was made.” 

“And does not morality also decline? ” 

“Tt depends what you call—yes, yes, I suppose morality 
does decline.” 

“Excuse the question, but if this is the case, how is 
England justified in holding India?” 


{12 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


There they were! Politics again. ‘It’s a question I 
can’t get my mind on to,” he replied. ‘I’m out here 
personally because I needed a job. I cannot tell you why 
England is here or whether she ought to be here. It’s 
beyond me.” 

“‘Well-qualified Indians also need jobs in the educa: 
tional.” 

“T guess they do; I got in first,” said Fielding, smiling. 

“Then excuse me again—is it fair an Englishman 
should occupy one when Indians are available? Of course 
I mean nothing personally. Personally we are delighted 
you should be here, and we benefit greatly by this frank 
talks 

There is only one answer to a conversation of this type: 
“England holds India for her good.” Yet Fielding was 
disinclined to give it. The zeal for honesty had eaten 
him up. He said, “I’m delighted to be here too—that’s 
my answer, there’s my only excuse. I can’t tell you any- 
thing about fairness. It mayn’t have been fair I should 
have been born. I take up some other fellow’s air, don’t 
I, whenever I breathe? Still, I’m glad it’s happened, and 
I’m glad I’m out here. However big a badmash one is— 
if one’s happy in consequence, that is some justification.” 

The Indians were bewildered. The line of thought was 
not alien to them, but the words were too definite and 
bleak. Unless a sentence paid a few compliments to Jus- 
tice and Morality in passing, its grammar wounded their 
ears and paralysed their minds. What they said and 
what they felt were (except in the case of affection) 
seldom the same. They had numerous mental conventions 
and when these were flouted they found it very difficult to 
function. Hamidullah bore up best. “ And those Eng- 
lishmen who are not delighted to be in India—have they 
no excuse?” he asked. 

None Oulickwenlout.« 

“It may be difficult to separate them from the rest,” he 
laughed. 


MOSQUE 113 


“ Worse than difficult, wrong,” said Mr. Ram Chand. 
“No Indian gentleman approves chucking out as a proper 
thing. Here we differ from those other nations. We are 
so spiritual.” 

“ Oh, that is true, how true!” said the police inspector. 

“Is it true, Mr. Haq? I don’t consider us spiritual. 
We can't co-ordinate, we can’t co-ordinate, it only comes 
to that. We can’t keep engagements, we can’t catch 
trains. What more than this is the so-called spirituality 
of India? You and I ought to be at the Committee of 
Notables, we’re not; our friend Dr. Lal ought to be with 
his patients, he isn’t. So we go on, and so we shall con- 
tinue to go, I think, until the end of time.” 

“Tt is not the end of time, it is scarcely ten-thirty, 
ha, ha!” cried Dr. Panna Lal, who was again in confident 
mood. “Gentlemen, if I may be allowed to say a few 
words, what an interesting talk, also thankfulness and 
gratitude to Mr. Fielding in the first place teaches our 
sons and gives them all the great benefits of his experience 
and judgment * 

Slr a teal te: 

OTe Zizi 

“You sit on my leg.” 

“T beg pardon, but some might say your leg kicks.” 

“Come along, we tire the invalid in either case,” said 
Fielding, and they filed out—four Mohammedans, two 
Hindus and the Englishman. They stood on the veran- 
dah while their conveyances were summoned out of vari- 
ous patches of shade. 

‘‘ Aziz has a high opinion of you, he only did not speak 
because of his illness.” 

“J quite understand,” said Fielding, who was rather 
disappointed with his call. The Club comment, “ making 
himself cheap as usual,’ passed through his mind. He 
couldn’t even get his horse brought up. He had liked 
Aziz so much at their first meeting, and had hoped for 
developments. 





114 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


CHAPTER X 


HE heat had leapt forward in the last hour, the street 
was deserted as if a catastrophe had cleaned off 
humanity during the inconclusive talk. Opposite Aziz’ 
bungalow stood a large unfinished house belonging to two 
brothers, astrologers, and a squirrel hung head-down- 
wards on it, pressing its belly against burning scaffolding 
and twitching a mangy tail. It seemed the only occupant 
of the house, and the squeals it gave were in tune with 
the infinite, no doubt, but not attractive except to other 
squirrels. More noises came from a dusty tree, where 
brown birds creaked and floundered about looking for 
insects; another bird, the invisible coppersmith, had 
started his “ ponk ponk.” It matters so little to the ma- 
jority of living beings what the minority, that calls it- 
self human, desires or decides. Most of the inhabitants 
of India do not mind how India is governed. Nor are 
the lower animals of England concerned about England, 
but in the tropics the indifference is more prominent, the 
inarticulate world is closer at hand and readier to resume 
control as soon as men are tired. When the seven gentle- 
men who had held such various opinions inside the bunga- 
low came out of it, they were aware of a common burden, 
a vague threat which they called “the bad weather com- 
ing.” They felt that they could not do their work, or 
would not be paid enough for doing it. The space be- 
tween them and their carriages, instead of being empty, 
was clogged with a medium that pressed against their 
flesh, the carriage cushions scalded their trousers, their 
eyes pricked, domes of hot water accumulated under their 
head-gear and poured down their cheeks. Salaaming 
feebly, they dispersed for the interior of other bungalows, 
to recover their self-esteem and the qualities that distin- 
guished them from each other. 


MOSQUE 115 


All over the city and over much of India the same re- 
treat on the part of humanity was beginning, into cellars, 
up hills, under trees. April, herald of horrors, is at hand. 
The sun was returning to his kingdom with power but 
without beauty—that was the sinister feature. If only 
there had been beauty! His cruelty would have been tol- 
erable then. Through excess of light, he failed to tri- 
umph, he also; in his yellowy-white overflow not only 
matter, but brightness itself lay drowned. He was not the 
unattainable friend, either of men or birds or other suns, 
he was not the eternal promise, the never-withdrawn sug- 
gestion that haunts our consciousness; he was merely a 
creature, like the rest, and so debarred from glory. 


CHAPTER XI 


JA the Indians had driven off, and Fielding 
could see his horse standing in a small shed in the 
corner of the compound, no one troubled to bring it to 
him. He started to get it himself, but was stopped by a 
call from the house. Aziz was sitting up in bed, looking 
dishevelled and sad. ‘ Here’s your home,” he said sar- 
donically. “ Here’s the celebrated hospitality of the East. 
Look at the flies. Look at the chunam coming off the 
walls. Isn’t it jolly? Now I suppose you want to be 
off, having seen an Oriental interior.” 

“ Anyhow, you want to rest.” 

“T can rest the whole day, thanks to worthy Dr. Lal. 
Major Callendar’s spy, I suppose you know, but this time 
it didn’t work. I am allowed to have a slight tempera- 
ture.” 

“ Callendar doesn’t trust anyone, English or Indian: 
that’s his character, and I wish you weren’t under him; 
but you are, and that’s that.” 

“ Before you go, for you are evidently in a great hurry, 


116 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


will you please unlock that drawer? Do you see a piece 
of brown paper at the top?” 

6é Yes” 

> Opetaiten 

“ Who is this? ” 

“She was my wife. You are the first Englishman she 
has ever come before. Now put her photograph away.” 

He was astonished, as a traveller who suddenly sees, 
between the stones of the desert, flowers. ‘The flowers 
have been there all the time, but suddenly he sees them. 
He tried to look at the photograph, but in itself it was 
just a woman in a sari, facing the world. He muttered, 
“ Really, I don’t know why you pay me this great com- 
pliment, Aziz, but I do appreciate it.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing, she was not a highly educated 
woman or even beautiful, but put it away. You would 
have seen her, so why should you not see her photo- 
graph?” 

“You would have allowed me to see her?” 

“Why not? I believe in the purdah, but I should 
have told her you were my brother, and she would have 
seen you. Hamidullah saw her, and several others.” 

“Did she think they were your brothers? ”’ 

“ Of course not, but the word exists and is convenient. 
All men are my brothers, and as soon as one behaves as 
such he may see my wife.” 

“ And when the whole world behaves as such, there 
will be no more purdah? ” 

“It is because you can say and feel such a remark as 
that, that I show you the photograph,” said Aziz gravely. 
“Tt is beyond the power of most men. It is because you 
behave well while I behave badly that I show it you. I 
never expected you to come back just now when I called 
you. I thought, ‘ He has certainly done with me; I have 
insulted him.’ Mr. Fielding, no one can ever realize how 
much kindness we Indians need, we do not even realize 
it ourselves. But we know when it has been given. We 


MOSQUE 117 


do not forget, though we may seem to. Kindness, more 
kindness, and even after that more kindness. I assure 
you it is the only hope.” Huis voice seemed to arise from 
adream. Altering it, yet still deep below his normal sur- 
face, he said, “ We can’t build up India except on what 
we feel. What is the use of all these reforms, and Con- 
ciliation Committees for Mohurram, and shall we cut the 
tazia short or shall we carry it another route, and Councils 
of Notables and official parties where the English sneer 
at our skins? ” 

“It’s beginning at the wrong end, isn’t it? I know, 
but institutions and the governments don’t.” He looked 
again at the photograph. The lady faced the world at 
her husband’s wish and her own, but how bewildering 
she found it, the echoing contradictory world! 

“ Put her away, she is of no importance, she is dead,” 
said Aziz gently. “I showed her to you because I have 
nothing else to show. You may look round the whole 
of my bungalow now, and empty everything. I have 
no other secrets, my three children live away with their 
grandmamma, and that is all.” 

Fielding sat down by the bed, flattered at the trust 
reposed in him, yet rather sad. He felt old. He wished 
that he too could be carried away on waves of emotion. 
The next time they met, Aziz might be cautious and 
standoffish. He realized this, and it made him sad that 
he should realize it. Kindness, kindness, and more kind- 
ness—yes, that he might supply, but was that really all 
that the queer nation needed? Did it not also demand 
an occasional intoxication of the blood? What had he 
done to deserve this outburst of confidence, and what 
hostage could he give in exchange? He looked back 
at his own life. What a poor crop of secrets it had pro- 
duced! There were things in it that he had shown to 
no one, but they were so uninteresting, it wasn’t worth 
while lifting a purdah on their account. He’d been in 
love, engaged to be married, lady broke _ off, memories 


118 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


of her and thoughts about her had kept him from other 
women for a time; then indulgence, followed by re- 
pentance and equilibrium. Meagre really except the 
equilibrium, and Aziz didn’t want to have that confided 
to him—he would have called it “everything ranged 
coldly on shelves.” 

“T shall not really be intimate with this fellow,” Field- 
ing thought, and then “nor with anyone.” That was 
the corollary. And he had to confess that he really 
didn’t mind, that he was content to help people, and like 
them as long as they didn’t object, and if they objected 
pass on serenely. Experience can do much, and all that 
he had learnt in England and Europe was an assistance 
to him, and helped him towards clarity, but clarity pre- 
vented him from experiencing something else. 

“ How did you like the two ladies you met last Thurs- 
day? ”’ he asked. 

Aziz shook his head distastefully. The question re- 
minded him of his rash remark about the Marabar Caves. 

“How do you like Englishwomen generally? ” 

“ Hamidullah liked them in England. Here we never 
look at them. Oh no, much too careful. Let’s talk of 
something else.”’ 

“ Hamidullah’s right: they are much nicer in England. 
There’s something that doesn’t suit them out here.” 

Aziz after another silence said, ‘Why are you not 
married? ”’ 

Fielding was pleased that he had asked. ‘‘ Because 
I have more or less come through without it,” he replied. 
“T was thinking of telling you a little about myself some 
day if I can make it interesting enough. The lady I 
liked wouldn’t marry me—that is the main point, but 
that’s fifteen years ago and now means nothing.” 

“ But you haven’t children.” 

no Oued 

“Excuse the following question: have you any illegiti< 
mate children? ” 


MOSQUE 119 


“No. Id willingly tell you if I had.” 

“ Then your name will entirely die out.” 

meltemust.! 

“ Well.” He shook his head. “ This indifference is 
what the Oriental will never understand.” 

“T don’t care for children.” 

“Caring has nothing to do with it,” he said impa- 
tiently. 

“T don’t feel their absence, I don’t want them weeping 
around my death-bed and being polite about me after- 
wards, which I believe is the general notion. Id far 
rather leave a thought behind me than a child. Other 
people can have children. No obligation, with England 
getting so chock-a-block and overrunning India for jobs.” 

“Why don’t you marry Miss Quested?”’ 

“ Good God! why, the girl’s a prig.” 

“Prig, prig? Kindly explain. Isn’t that a bad 
word?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know her, but she struck me as one of 
the more pathetic products of Western education. She 
depresses me.” 

“ But prig, Mr. Fielding? How’s that?” 

“She goes on and on as if she’s at a lecture—trying 
ever so hard to understand India and life, and occasionally 
taking a note.” 

“TI thought her so nice and sincere.” 

“So she probably is,” said Fielding, ashamed of his 
roughness: any suggestion that he should marry always 
does produce overstatements on the part of the bachelor, 
and a mental breeze. “ But I can’t marry her if I wanted 
to, for she has just become engaged to the City Magis- 
trates? 

“Has she indeed? JI am so glad!” he exclaimed with 
relief, for this exempted him from the Marabar expedi- 
tion: he would scarcely be expected to entertain regular 
Anglo-Indians. 

“It’s the old mother’s doing. She was afraid her dear 


120 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


boy would choose for himself, so she brought out the 
girl on purpose, and flung them together until it hap- 
pened.” 

“Mrs. Moore did not mention that to me among her 
plans.” 

“T may have got it wrong—lI’m out of club gossip. 
But anyhow they’re engaged to be married.” 

‘Yes, you're out of it))my poor chap,” ‘he smilede 
“No Miss Quested for Mr. Fielding. However, she was 
not beautiful. She has practically no breasts, if you come 
to think of it.” 

He smiled too, but found a touch of bad taste in the 
reference to a lady’s breasts. 

“For the City Magistrate they shall be sufficient per- 
haps, and he for her. For you I shall arrange a lady 
with breasts like mangoes. .. .” 

“No, you won't.” 

“T will not really, and besides your position makes it 
dangerous for you.” His mind had slipped from matri- 
mony to Calcutta. His face grew grave. Fancy if he 
had persuaded the Principal to accompany him there, and 
then got him into trouble! And abruptly he took up a 
new attitude towards his friend, the attitude of the pro- 
tector who knows the dangers of India and is admoni- 
tory. “ You can’t be too careful in every way, Mr. Field- 
ing; whatever you say or do in this damned country 
there is always some envious fellow on the lookout. You 
may be surprised to know that there were at least three 
spies sitting here when you came to enquire. I was really 
a good deal upset that you talked in that fashion about 
God. They will certainly report it.” 

“To whom? ” 

“That’s all very well, but you spoke against morality 
also, and you said you had come to take other people’s 
jobs. All that was very unwise. This is an awful place 
for scandal. Why, actually one of your own pupils was 
listening.” 


MOSQUE 121 


“Thanks for telling me that; yes, I must try and be 
more careful. If I’m interested, I’m apt to forget my- 
self. Still, it doesn’t do real harm.” 

“ But speaking out may get you into trouble.” 

“It’s often done so in the past.” 

“There, listen to that! But the end of it might be 
that you lost your job.” 

“Tf I do, I do. I shall survive it. I travel light.” 

“Travel light! You are a most extraordinary race,” 
said Aziz, turning away as if he were going to sleep, and 
immediately turning back again. “Is it your climate, or 
what?” 

“Plenty of Indians travel light too—saddhus and such. 
It’s one of the things I admire about your country. Any 
man can travel light until he has a wife or children. 
That’s part of my case against marriage. I’m a holy man 
minus the holiness. Hand that on to your three spies, 
and tell them to put it in their pipes.” 

Aziz was charmed and interested, and turned the new 
idea over in his mind. So this was why Mr. Fielding 
and a few others were so fearless! They had nothing to 
lose. But he himself was rooted in society and Islam. 
He belonged to a tradition which bound him, and he had 
brought children into the world, the society of the future. 
Though he lived so vaguely in this flimsy bungalow, 
nevertheless he was placed, placed. 

“I can’t be sacked from my job, because my job’s Edu- 
cation. JI believe in teaching people to be individuals, 
and to understand other individuals. It’s the only thing 
I do believe in. At Government College, I mix it up 
with trigonometry, and so on. When I’m a saddhu, I 
shall mix it up with something else.” 

He concluded his manifesto, and both were silent. The 
eye-flies became worse than ever and danced close up to 
their pupils, or crawled into their ears. Fielding hit 
about wildly. The exercise made him hot, and he got 
up to go. 


122 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“You might tell your servant to bring my horse. He 
doesn’t seem to appreciate my Urdu.” | 

“T know. I gave him orders not to. Such are the 
tricks we play on unfortunate Englishmen. Poor Mr. 
Fielding! But I will release you now. Oh dear! With 
the exception of yourself and Hamidullah, I have no one 
to talk to in this place. You like Hamidullah, don’t 
your”’ 

“ Very much.” 

“Do you promise to come at once to us when you are © 
in trouble?” 

“T never can be in trouble.” 

“There goes a queer chap, I trust he won’t come to 
grief,’ thought Aziz, left alone. His period of admira- 
tion was over, and he reacted towards patronage. It 
was difficult for him to remain in awe of anyone who 
played with all his cards on the table. Fielding, he dis- 
covered on closer acquaintance, was truly warm-hearted 
and unconventional, but not what can be called wise. 
That frankness of speech in the presence of Ram Chand 
Rafi and Co. was dangerous and inelegant. It served no 
useful end. 

But they were friends, brothers. That part was settled, | 
their compact had been subscribed by the photograph, they 
trusted one another, affection had triumphed for once in 
a way. He dropped off to sleep amid the happier memo- 
ries of the last two hours—poetry of Ghalib, female 
grace, good old Hamidullah, good Fielding, his honoured 
wife and dear boys. He passed into a region where these 
joys had no enemies but bloomed harmoniously in an 
eternal garden, or ran down watershoots of ribbed 
marble, or rose into domes whereunder were inscribed, 
black against white, the ninety-nine attributes of God. 


PART II: CAVES 
CHAPTER XII 


HE Ganges, though flowing from the foot of Vishnu 
and through Siva’s hair, is not an ancient stream. 
Geology, looking further than religion, knows of a time 
when neither the river nor the Himalayas that nourished 
it existed, and an ocean flowed over the holy places of 
Hindustan. The mountains rose, their debris silted up 
the ocean, the gods took their seats on them and con- 
trived the river, and the India we call immemorial came 
into being. But India is really far older. In the days 
of the prehistoric ocean the southern part of the penin- 
sula already existed, and the high places of Dravidia have 
been land since land began, and have seen on the one side 
the sinking of a continent that joined them to Africa, and 
on the other the upheaval of the Himalayas from a sea. 
They are older than anything in the world. No water 
has ever covered them, and the sun who has watched 
them for countless zons may still discern in their out- 
lines forms that were his before our globe was torn from 
his bosom. If flesh of the sun’s flesh is to be touched 
anywhere, it is here, among the incredible antiquity of 
these hills. 7 
Yet even they are altering. As Himalayan India rose, 
this India, the primal, has been depressed, and is slowly 
re-entering the curve of the earth. It may be that in 
zeons to come an ocean will flow here too, and cover the 
sun-born rocks with slime. Meanwhile the plain of the 
Ganges encroaches on them with something of the sea’s 
action. They are sinking beneath the newer lands. Their 


main mass is untouched, but at the edge their outposts 
123 


124 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


have been cut off and stand knee-deep, throat-deep, in the 
advancing soil. There is something unspeakable in these 
outposts. They are like nothing else in the world, and 
a glimpse of them makes the breath catch. They rise 
abruptly, insanely, without the proportion that is kept by 
the wildest hills elsewhere, they bear no relation to any- 
thing dreamt or seen. ‘To call them “uncanny” sug- 
gests ghosts, and they are older than all spirit. Hinduism 
has scratched and plastered a few rocks, but the shrines 
are unfrequented, as if pilgrims, who generally seek the 
extraordinary, had here found too much of it. Some 
saddhus did once settle in a cave, but they were smoked 
out, and even Buddha, who must have passed this way 
down to the Bo Tree of Gya, shunned a renunciation 
more complete than his own, and has left no legend of 
struggle or victory in the Marabar. 

The caves are readily described. A tunnel eight feet 
long, five feet high, three feet wide, leads to a circular 
chamber about twenty feet in diameter. This arrange- 
ment occurs again and again throughout the group of 
hills, and this is all, this is a Marabar Cave. Having 
seen one such cave, having seen two, having seen three, 
four, fourteen, twenty-four, the visitor returns to Chan- 
drapore uncertain whether he has had an interesting 
experience or a dull one or any experience at all. He 
finds it difficult to discuss the caves, or to keep them 
apart in his mind, for the pattern never varies, and no 
carving, not even a bees’-nest or a bat distinguishes one 
from another. Nothing, nothing attaches to them, and 
their reputation—for they have one—does not depend 
upon human speech. It is as if the surrounding plain 
or the passing birds have taken upon themselves to ex- 
claim “extraordinary,” and the word has taken root in 
the air, and been inhaled by mankind. 

They are dark caves. Even when they open towards 
the sun, very little light penetrates down the entrance 
tunnel into the circular chamber. There is little to see, 


CAVES 125 


and no eye to see it, until the visitor arrives for his five 
minutes, and strikes a match. Immediately another flame 
rises in the depths of the rock and moves towards the 
surface like an imprisoned spirit: the walls of the circular 
chamber have been most marvellously polished. The two 
flames approach and strive to unite, but cannot, because 
one of them breathes air, the other stone. A mirror in- 
laid with lovely colours divides the lovers, delicate stars 
of pink and grey interpose, exquisite nebulz, shadings 
fainter than the tail of a comet or the midday moon, all 
the evanescent life of the granite, only here visible. Fists 
and fingers thrust above the advancing soil—here at last 
is their skin, finer than any covering acquired by the 
animals, smoother than windless water, more voluptuous 
than love. The radiance increases, the flames touch one 
another, kiss, expire. The cave is dark again, like all the 
caves. 

Only the wall of the circular chamber has been polished 
thus. The sides of the tunnel are left rough, they im- 
pinge as an afterthought upon the internal perfection. 
An entrance was necessary, so mankind made one. But 
elsewhere, deeper in the granite, are there certain cham- 
bers that have no entrances? Chambers never unsealed 
since the arrival of the gods. Local report declares that 
these exceed in number those that can be visited, as the 
dead exceed the living—four hundred of them, four thou- 
sand or million. Nothing is inside them, they were sealed 
up before the creation of pestilence or treasure; if man- 
kind grew curious and excavated, nothing, nothing would 
be added to the sum of good or evil. One of them is 
rumoured within the boulder that swings on the summit of 
the highest of the hills; a bubble-shaped cave that has 
neither ceiling nor floor, and mirrors its own darkness in 
every direction infinitely. If the boulder falls and 
smashes, the cave will smash too—empty as an Easter 
egg. The boulder because of its hollowness sways in the 
wind, and even moves when a crow perches upon it: 


126 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


hence its name and the name of its stupendous pedestal: 
the Kawa Dol. 


CHAPTER XIII 


HESE hills look romantic in certain lights and at 
suitable distances, and seen of an evening from the 
upper verandah of the club they caused Miss Quested 
to say conversationally to Miss Derek that she should 
like to have gone, that Dr. Aziz at Mr. Fielding’s had 
said he would arrange something, and that Indians seem 
rather forgetful. She was overheard by the servant who 
offered them vermouths. This servant understood Eng- 
lish. And he was not exactly a spy, but he kept his ears 
open, and Mahmoud Ali did not exactly bribe him, but 
did encourage him to come and squat with his own 
servants, and would happen to stroll their way when he 
was there. As the story travelled, it accreted emotion 
and Aziz learnt with horror that the ladies were deeply 
offended with him, and had expected an invitation daily. 
He thought his facile remark had been forgotten. En- 
dowed with two memories, a temporary and a permanent, 
he had hitherto relegated the caves to the former. Now 
he transferred them once for all, and pushed the matter 
through. They were to be a stupendous replica of the 
_tea party. He began by securing Fielding and old God- 
bole, and then commissioned Fielding to approach Mrs. 
Moore and Miss Quested when they were alone—by this 
device Ronny, their official protector, could be circum- 
vented. Fielding didn’t like the job much; he was busy, 
caves bored him, he foresaw friction and expense, but he 
would not refuse the first favour his friend had asked 
from him, and did as required. The ladies accepted. It 
was a little inconvenient in the present press of their 
engagements, still, they hoped to manage it after con- 
sulting Mr. Heaslop. Consulted, Ronny raised no objec- 


CAVES 127 


tion, provided Fielding undertook full responsibility for 
their comfort. He was not enthusiastic about the picnic, 
but, then, no more were the ladies—no one was enthusi- 
astic, yet it took place. 

Aziz was terribly worried. It was not a long expedi- 
tion—a train left Chandrapore just before dawn, another 
would bring them back for tiffin—but he was only a little 
official still, and feared to acquit himself dishonourably. 
He had to ask Major Callendar for half a day’s leave, 
and be refused because of his recent malingering; de- 
Spair; renewed approach of Major Callendar through 
Fielding, and contemptuous snarling permission. He had 
to borrow cutlery from Mahmoud Ali without inviting 
him. ‘Then there was the question of alcohol; Mr. Field- 
ing, and perhaps the ladies, were drinkers, so must he 
provide whisky-sodas and ports? There was the problem 
of transport from the wayside station of Marabar to the 
caves. There was the problem of Professor Godbole and 
his food, and of Professor Godbole and other people’s 
food—two problems, not one problem. The Professor 
was not a very strict Hindu—he would take tea, fruit, 
soda-water and sweets, whoever cooked them, and vege- 
tables and rice if cooked by a Brahman; but not meat, 
not cakes lest they contained eggs, and he would not allow 
anyone else to eat beef: a slice of beef upon a distant 
plate would wreck his happiness. Other people might eat 
mutton, they might eat ham. But over ham Aziz’ own 
religion raised its voice: he did not fancy other people 
eating ham. Trouble after trouble encountered him, be- 
cause he had challenged the spirit of the Indian earth, 
which tries to keep men in compartments. 

At last the moment arrived. 

His friends thought him most unwise to mix himself 
up with English ladies, and warned him to take every 
precaution against unpunctuality. Consequently he spent 
the previous night at the station. The servants were 
huddled on the platform, enjoined not to stray. He him- 


128 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


self walked up and down with old Mohammed Latif, 
who was to act as major-domo. He felt insecure and 
also unreal. A car drove up, and he hoped Fielding 
would get out of it, to lend him solidity. But it con- 
tained Mrs. Moore, Miss Quested, and their Goanese 
servant. He rushed to meet them, suddenly happy. “ But 
you’ve come, after all. Oh, how very very kind of you!” 
he cried. ‘‘ This is the happiest moment in all my life.” 

The ladies were civil. It was not the happiest mo- 
ment in their lives, still, they looked forward to enjoying 
themselves as soon as the bother of the early start was 
over. They had not seen him since the expedition was 
arranged, and they thanked him adequately. 

“You don’t require tickets—please stop your servant. 
There are no tickets on the Marabar branch line; it is 
its peculiarity. You come to the carriage and rest till 
Mr. Fielding joins us. Did you know you are to travel 
purdah? Will you like that?” 

They replied that they should like it. The train had 
come in, and a crowd of dependents were swarming over 
the seats of the carriage like monkeys. Aziz had bor- 
rowed servants from his friends, as well as bringing his 
own three, and quarrels over precedence were resulting. 
The ladies’ servant stood apart, with a sneering expression 
on his face. They had hired him while they were still 
globe-trotters, at Bombay. In a hotel or among smart 
people he was excellent, but as soon as they consorted 
with anyone whom he thought second-rate he left them 
to their disgrace. 

The night was still dark, but had acquired the tempo- 
rary look that indicates its end. Perched on the roof of 
a shed, the station-master’s hens began to dream of kites 
instead of owls. Lamps were put out, in order to save the 
trouble of putting them out later; the smell of tobacco 
and the sound of spitting arose from third-class pas- 
sengers in dark corners; heads were unshrouded, teeth 
cleaned on the twigs of a tree. So convinced was a junior 


CAVES 129 


official that another sun would rise, that he rang a bell 
with enthusiasm. ‘This upset the servants. They shrieked 
that the train was starting, and ran to both ends of it to 
intercede. Much had still to enter the purdah carriage— 
a box bound with brass, a melon wearing a fez, a towel 
containing guavas, a step-ladder and a gun. The guests 
played up all right. They had no race-consciousness— 
Mrs. Moore was too old, Miss Quested too new—and they 
behaved to Aziz as to any young man who had been kind 
to them in the country. This moved him deeply. He 
had expected them to arrive with Mr. Fielding, instead 
of which they trusted themselves to be with him a few 
moments alone. 

“Send back your servant,’ he suggested. “ He is un- 
necessary. Then we shall all be Moslems together.” 

“And he is such a horrible servant. Antony, you can 
go; we don’t want you,” said the girl impatiently. 

““ Master told me to come.” 

“Mistress tells you to go.” 

““ Master says, keep near the ladies all the morning. 

“Well, your ladies won’t have you.” She turned to 
the host. “Do get rid of him, Dr. Aziz!” 

“Mohammed Latif!” he called. 

The poor relative exchanged fezzes with the melon, 
and peeped out of the window of the railway carriage, 
whose confusion he was superintending. 

“Here is my cousin, Mr. Mohammed Latif. Oh no, 
don’t shake hands. He is an Indian of the old-fashioned 
sort, he prefers to salaam. ‘There, I told you so. Mo- 
hammed Latif, how beautifully you salaam. See, he 
hasn’t understood; he knows no English.” 

“You spick lie,” said the old man gently. 

“T spick a lie! Oh, jolly good. Isn’t he a funny old 
man? We will have great jokes with him later. He 
does all sorts of little things. He is not nearly as stupid 
as you think, and awfully poor. It’s lucky ours is a 
large family.” He flung an arm round the grubby neck. 


9 


130 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“But you get inside, make yourselves at home; yes, you 
lie down.”” The celebrated Oriental confusion appeared 
at last to be at an end. ‘“‘ Excuse me, now I must meet 
our other two guests!” 

He was getting nervous again, for it was ten minutes 
to the time. Still, Fielding was an Englishman, and they 
never do miss trains, and Godbole was a Hindu and did 
not count, and, soothed by this logic, he grew calmer as 
the hour of departure approached. Mohammed Latif had 
bribed Antony not to come. They walked up and down 
the platform, talking usefully. They agreed that they 
had overdone the servants, and must leave two or three 
behind at Marabar station. And Aziz explained that he 
might be playing one or two practical jokes at the caves— 
not out of unkindness, but to make the guests laugh. The 
old man assented with slight sideway motions of the head: 
he was always willing to be ridiculed, and he bade Aziz 
not spare him. Elated by his importance, he began an in- 
decent anecdote. 

“Tell me another time, brother, when I have more 
leisure, for now, as I have already explained, we have to 
give pleasure to non-Moslems. Three will be Europeans, 
one a Hindu, which must not be forgotten. Every atten- 
tion must be paid to Professor Godbole, lest he feel that 
he is inferior to my other guests.” 

“T will discuss philosophy with him.” 

“ That will be kind of you; but the servants are even 
more important. We must not convey an impression of 
disorganization. It can be done, and I expect you to 
donitie ac, 

A shriek from the purdah carriage. The train had 
started. 

“ Merciful God!” cried Mohammed Latif. He flung 
himself at the train, and leapt on tc the footboard of a 
carriage. Aziz did likewise. It was an easy feat, for a 
branch-line train is slow to assume special airs. ‘‘ We’re 


CAVES 131 


monkeys, don’t worry,” he called, hanging on to a bar 
and laughing. Then he howled, “Mr. Fielding! Mr. 
Fielding! ” 

There were Fielding and old Godbole, held up at the 
level-crossing. Appalling catastrophe! The gates had 
been closed earlier than usual, They leapt from their 
tonga; they gesticulated, but what was the good. So 
near and yet so far! As the train joggled past over 
the points, there was time for agonized words. 

“‘ Bad, bad, you have destroyed me.” 

“Godbole’s pujah did it,’ cried the Englishman. 

The Brahman lowered his eyes, ashamed of religion. 
For it was so: he had miscalculated the length of a 
prayer. 

‘Jump on, I must have you,” screamed Aziz, beside 
himself. 

“ Right, give a hand.” 

“ He’s not to, he’ll kill himself,’ Mrs. Moore protested. 
He jumped, he failed, missed his friend’s hand, and fell 
back on to the line. The train rumbled past. He 
scrambled on to his feet, and bawled after them, “ I’m 
all right, you’re all right, don’t worry,” and then they 
passed beyond range of his voice. 

“Mrs. Moore, Miss Quested, our expedition is a ruin.” 
He swung himself along the footboard, almost in tears. 

“Get in, get in; you'll kill yourself as well as Mr. 
Fielding. I see no ruin.” 

“* How is that? Oh, explain to me!” he said piteously, 
like a child. 

“We shall be all Moslems together now, as you 
promised.” 

She was perfect as always, his dear Mrs. Moore. All 
the love for her he had felt at the mosque welled up 
again, the fresher for forgetfulness. There was nothing 
he would not do for her. He would die to make her 
happy. 


132 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“Get in, Dr. Aziz, you make us giddy,” the other lady 
called. “If they’re so foolish as to miss the train, that’s 
their loss, not ours.”’ 

“Tam to blame. I am the host.” 

‘“‘ Nonsense, go to your carriage. We're going to have 
a delightful time without them.” 

Not perfect like Mrs. Moore, but very sincere and kind. 
Wonderful ladies, both of them, and for one precious 
morning his guests. He felt important and competent. 
Fielding was a loss personally, being a friend, increasingly 
dear, yet if Fielding had come, he himself would have 
remained in leading-strings. ‘Indians are incapable of 
responsibility,” said the officials, and Hamidullah some- 
times said so too. He would show those pessimists that 
they were wrong. Smiling proudly, he glanced outward 
at the country, which was still invisible except as a dark 
movement in the darkness; then upwards at the sky, 
where the stars of the sprawling Scorpion had begun to 
pale. Then he dived through a window into a second- 
class carriage. 

“ Mohammed Latif, by the way, what is in these caves, 
brother? Why are we all going to see them? ” 

Such a question was beyond the poor relative’s scope. 
He could only reply that God and the local villagers knew, 
and that the latter would gladly act as guides. 


CHAPTER XIV 


OST of life is so dull that there is nothing to be said 
about it, and the books and talk that would describe 

it as interesting are obliged to exaggerate, in the hope of 
justifying their own existence. Inside its cocoon of work 
or social obligation, the human spirit slumbers for the 
most part, registering the distinction between pleasure 
and pain, but not nearly as alert as we pretend. There 
are periods in the most thrilling day during which nothing 


CAVES 133 


happens, and though we continue to exclaim, ‘ I do enjoy 
myself,” or, “I am horrified,” we are insincere. “ As 
far as I feel anything, it is enjoyment, horror ’’—it’s no 
more than that really, and a perfectly adjusted organism 
would be silent. 

It so happened that Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested had 
felt nothing acutely for a fortnight. Ever since Pro- 
fessor Godbole had sung his queer little song, they had 
lived more or less inside cocoons, and the difference be- 
tween them was that the elder lady accepted her own 
apathy, while the younger resented hers. It was Adela’s 
faith that the whole stream of events is important and in- 
teresting, and if she grew bored she blamed herself 
severely and compelled her lips to utter enthusiasms. 
This was the only insincerity in a character otherwise 
sincere, and it was indeed the intellectual protest of her 
youth. She was particularly vexed now because she was 
both in India and engaged to be married, which double 
event should have made every instant sublime. 

India was certainly dim this morning, though seen 
under the auspices of Indians. Her wish had been 
granted, but too late. She could not get excited over Aziz 
and his arrangements. She was not the least unhappy or 
depressed, and the various odd objects that surrounded 
her—the comic “ purdah”’ carriage, the piles of rugs and 
bolsters, the rolling melons, the scent of sweet oils, the 
ladder, the brass-bound box, the sudden irruption of 
Mahmoud Ali’s butler from the lavatory with tea and 
poached eggs upon a tray—they were all new and amus- 
ing, and led her to comment appropriately, but they 
wouldn’t bite into her mind. So she tried to find comfort 
by reflecting that her main interest would henceforward 
be Ronny. 

“What a nice cheerful servant! What a relief after 
Antony!” 

“They startle one rather. A strange place to make tea 
in,’ said Mrs. Moore, who had hoped for a nap. 


=f 


134 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“T want to sack Antony. His behaviour on the plat- 
form has decided me.” 

Mrs. Moore thought that Antony’s better self would 
come to the front at Simla. Miss Quested was to be 
married at Simla; some cousins, with a house looking 
straight on to Thibet, had invited her. 

‘“ Anyhow, we must get a second servant, because at 
Simla you will be at the hotel, and I don’t think Ronny’s 
Baldeo ...” She loved plans. 

“Very well, you get another servant, and Til keep 
Antony with me. I am used to his unappetizing ways. 
He will see me through the Hot Weather.” 

“TI don’t believe in the Hot Weather. People like 
Major Callendar who always talk about it—it’s in the 
hope of making one feel inexperienced and small, like 
their everlasting, ‘I’ve been twenty years in this coun- 
try.’ 99 

‘“T believe in the Hot Weather, but never did I suppose 
it would bottle me up as it will.” For owing to the sage 
leisureliness of Ronny and Adela, they could not be mar- 
ried till May, and consequently Mrs. Moore could not 
return to England immediately after the wedding, which 
was what she had hoped to do. By May a barrier of fire 
would have fallen across India and the adjoining sea, and 
she would have to remain perched up in the Himalayas 
waiting for the world to get cooler. 

“TI won't be bottled up,” announced the girl. “I’ve 
no patience with these women here who leave their hus- 
bands grilling in the plains. Mrs. McBryde hasn’t stopped 
down once since she married; she leaves her quite intelli- 
gent husband alone half the year, and then’s surprised 
she’s out of touch with him.” 

“ She has children, you see.” 

“Oh yes, that’s true,” said Miss Quested, disconcerted. 

“Tt is the children who are the first consideration. 
Until they are grown up, and married off. When that 


CAVES 135 


happens one has again the right to live for oneselfi—in 
the plains or the hills, as suits.” 

““Oh yes, you're perfectly right. I never thought it 
out.” 

“Tf one has not become too stupid and old.’’ She 
handed her empty cup to the servant. 

““My idea now is that my cousins shall find me a 
servant in Simla, at all events to see me through the 
wedding, after which Ronny means to reorganize his staff 
entirely. He does it very well for a bachelor; still, when 
he is married no doubt various changes will have to be 
made—his old servants won’t want to take their orders 
from me, and I don’t blame them.” 

Mrs. Moore pushed up the shutters and looked out. 
She had brought Ronny and Adela together by their 
mutual wish, but really she could not advise them further. 
She felt increasingly (vision or nightmare?) that, though 
people are important, the relations between them are not, 
and that in particular too much fuss has been made over 
marriage ; centuries of carnal embracement, yet man is no 
nearer to understanding man. And to-day she felt this 
with such force that it seemed itself a relationship, itself 
a person who was trying to take hold of her hand. 

‘“* Anything to be seen of the hills?” 

** Only various shades of the dark.” 

“We can’t be far from the place where my hyena was.” 
She peered into the timeless twilight. The train crossed 
a nullah. ‘“ Pomper, pomper, pomper,” was the sound 
that the wheels made as they trundled over the bridge, 
moving very slowly. A hundred yards on came a second 
nullah, then a third, suggesting the neighbourhood of 
higher ground. “Perhaps this is mine; anyhow, the 
road runs parallel with the railway.’’ Her accident was a 
pleasant memory; she felt in her dry, honest way that 
it had given her a good shake up, and taught her Ronny’s 
true worth. Then she went back to her plans; plans had 


136 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


been a passion with her from girlhood. Now and then 
she paid tribute to the present, said how friendly and © 
intelligent Aziz was, ate a guava, couldn’t eat a fried 
sweet, practised her Urdu on the servant ; but her thoughts 
ever veered to the manageable future, and to the Anglo- 
Indian life she had decided to endure. And as she ap- 
praised it with its adjuncts of Turtons and Burtons, the 
train accompanied her sentences, “ pomper, pomper,” 
the train half asleep, going nowhere in particular and with 
no passenger of importance in any of its carriages, the 
branch-line train, lost on a low embankment between dull 
fields. Its message—for it had one—avoided her well- 
equipped mind. Far away behind her, with a shriek that 
meant business, rushed the Mail, connecting up important 
towns such as Calcutta and Lahore, where interesting 
events occur and personalities are developed. She under- 
stood that. Unfortunately, India has few important 
towns. India is the country, fields, fields, then hills, 
jungle, hills, and more fields. The branch line stops, the 
road is only practicable for cars to a point, the bullock- 
carts lumber down the side tracks, paths fray out into 
the cultivation, and disappear near a splash of red paint. 
How can the mind take hold of such a country? Genera- 
tions of invaders have tried, but they remain in exile. 
The important towns they build are only retreats, their 
quarrels the malaise of men who cannot find their way 
home. India knows of their trouble. She knows of the 
whole world’s trouble, to its uttermost depth. She calls 
“Come”’ through her hundred mouths, through objects 
ridiculous and august. But come to what? She has never 
defined. She is not a promise, only an appeal. 

“T will fetch you from Simla when it’s cool enough. I 
will unbottle you in fact,’ continued the reliable girl. 
“We then see some of the Mogul stuff—how appalling 
if we let you miss the Taj !—and then I will see you off 
at Bombay. Your last glimpse of this country really 
shall be interesting.” But Mrs. Moore had fallen asleep, 


CAVES 137 


exhausted by the early start. She was in rather low 
health, and ought not to have attempted the expedition, 
but had pulled herself together in case the pleasure of the 
others should suffer. Her dreams were of the same tex- 
ture, but there it was her other children who were want- 
ing something, Stella and Ralph, and she was explaining 
to them that she could not be in two families at once. 
When she awoke, Adela had ceased to plan, and leant 
out of a window, saying, “ They’re rather wonderful.” 

Astonishing even from the rise of the civil station, here 
the Marabar were gods to whom earth is a ghost. Kawa 
Dol was nearest. It shot up in a single slab, on whose 
summit one rock was poised—if a mass so great can be 
called one rock. Behind it, recumbent, were the hills that 
contained the other caves, isolated each from his neigh- 
bour by broad channels of the plain. The assemblage, 
ten in all, shifted a little as the train crept past them, as 
if observing its arrival. 

“‘T’ld not have missed this for anything,” said the girl, 
exaggerating her enthusiasm. “ Look, the sun’s rising— 
this'll be absolutely magnificent—come quickly—look. I 
wouldn’t have missed this for anything. We should 
never have seen it if we’d stuck to the Turtons and their 
eternal elephants.”’ 

As she spoke, the sky to the left turned angry orange. 
Colour throbbed and mounted behind a pattern of trees, 
erew in intensity, was yet brighter, incredibly brighter, 
strained from without against the globe of the air. They 
awaited the miracle. But at the supreme moment, when 
night should have died and day lived, nothing occurred. 
It was as if virtue had failed in the celestial fount. The 
hues in the east decayed, the hills seemed dimmer though 
in fact better lit, and a profound disappointment entered 
with the morning breeze. Why, when the chamber was 
prepared, did the bridegroom not enter with trumpets 
and shawms, as humanity expects? The sun rose with- 
out splendour. He was presently observed trailing yel- 


138 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


lowish behind the trees, or against insipid sky, and touch- 
ing the bodies already at work in the fields. 

“ Ah, that must be the false dawn—isn’t it caused by 
dust in the upper layers of the atmosphere that couldn’t 
fall down during the night? I think Mr. McBryde said 
so. Well, I must admit that England has it as regards 
sunrises. Do you remember Grasmere? ” 

“Ah, dearest Grasmere!” Its little lakes and moun- 
tains were beloved by them all. Romantic yet manage- 
able, it sprang from a kindlier planet. Here an untidy 
plain stretched to the knees of the Marabar. 

“Good morning, good morning, put on your topis,” 
shouted Aziz from farther down the train. “ Put on 
your topis at once, the early sun is highly dangerous for 
heads. I speak as a doctor.”’ 

“Good morning, good morning, put on your own.”’ 

“ Not for my thick head,” he laughed, banging it and 
holding up pads of his hair. 

“Nice creature he is,” murmured Adela. 

“Listen—Mohammed Latif says ‘Good morning’ 
next.” Various pointless jests. 

“Dr. Aziz, what’s happened to your hills? The train 
has forgotten to stop.” 

“Perhaps it is a circular train and goes back to Chan- 
drapore without a break. Who knows!” 

Having wandered off into the plain for a mile, the 
train slowed up against an elephant. There was a plat- 
form too, but it shrivelled into insignificance. An ele- 
phant, waving her painted forehead at the morn! ‘“ Oh, 
what a surprise!” called the ladies politely. Aziz said 
nothing, but he nearly burst with pride and relief. The 
elephant was the one grand feature of the picnic, and 
God alone knew what he had gone through to obtain 
her. Semi-official, she was best approached through the 
Nawab Bahadur, who was best approached through 
Nureddin, but he never answered letters, but his mother 
had great influence with him and was a friend of Hami- 


CAVES 139 


dullah Begum’s, who had been excessively kind and had 
promised to call on her provided the broken shutter of 
the purdah carriage came back soon enough from Cal- 
cutta. That an elephant should depend from so long 
and so slender a string filled Aziz with content, and with 
humorous appreciation of the East, where the friends of 
friends are a reality, where everything gets done some- 
time, and sooner or later every one gets his share of 
happiness. And Mohammed Latif was likewise content, 
because two of the guests had missed the train, and con- 
sequently he could ride on the howdah instead of follow- 
ing in a cart, and the servants were content because an 
elephant increased their self-esteem, and they tumbled out 
the luggage into the dust with shouts and bangs, issuing 
orders to one another, and convulsed with goodwill. 

“It takes an hour to get there, an hour to get back, 
and two hours for the caves, which we will call three,” 
said Aziz, smiling charmingly. There was suddenly 
something regal about him. “ The train back is at eleven- 
thirty, and you will be sitting down to your tiffin in 
Chandrapore with Mr. Heaslop at exactly your usual 
hour, namely, one-fifteen. I know everything about you. 
Four hours—quite a small expedition—and an hour extra 
for misfortunes, which occur somewhat frequently among 
my people. My idea is to plan everything without con- 
sulting you; but you, Mrs. Moore, or Miss Quested, you 
are at any moment to make alterations if you wish, even 
if it means giving up the caves. Do you agree? Then 
mount this wild animal.” 

The elephant had knelt, grey and isolated, like another 
hill. They climbed up the ladder, and he mounted shikar 
fashion, treading first on the sharp edge of the heel and 
then into the looped-up tail. When Mohammed Latif fol- 
lowed him, the servant who held the end of the tail let 
go of it according to previous instructions, so that the 
poor relative slipped and had to cling to the netting over 
the buttocks, It was a little piece of Court buffoonery, 


140 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


and distressed only the ladies, whom it was intended to 
divert. Both of them disliked practical jokes. Then the 
beast rose in two shattering movements, and poised them 
ten feet above the plain. Immediately below was the 
scurf of life that an elephant always collects round its 
feet—villagers, naked babies. The servants flung crock- 
ery into tongas. Hassan annexed the stallion intended for 
Aziz, and defied Mahmoud Ali’s man from its altitude. 
The Brahman who had been hired to cook for Professor 
Godbole was planted under an acacia tree, to await their 
return. The train, also hoping to return, wobbled away 
through the fields, turning its head this way and that like 
a centipede. And the only other movement to be seen 
was a movement as of antenne, really the counterpoises 
of the wells which rose and fell on their pivots of mud 
all over the plain and dispersed a feeble flow of water. 
The scene was agreeable rather than not in the mild morn- 
ing air, but there was little colour in it, and no vitality. 
As the elephant moved towards the hills (the pale sun 
had by this time saluted them to the base, and pencilled 
shadows down their creases) a new quality occurred, a 
spiritual silence which invaded more senses than the ear. 
Life went on as usual, but had no consequences, that is 
to say, sounds did not echo or thoughts develop. Every- 
thing seemed cut off at its root, and therefore infected 
with illusion. For instance, there were some mounds by 
the edge of the track, low, serrated, and touched with 
whitewash. What were these mounds—graves, breasts 
of the goddess Parvati? The villagers beneath gave both 
replies. Again, there was a confusion about a snake 
which was never cleared up. Miss Quested saw a thin, 
dark object reared on end at the farther side of a water- 
course, and said, “ A snake!” The villagers agreed, and 
Aziz explained: yes, a black cobra, very venomous, who 
had reared himself up to watch the passing of the ele- 
phant. But when she looked through Ronny’s field- 
glasses, she found it wasn’t a snake, but the withered 


CAVES I41 


and twisted stump of a toddy-palm. So she said, “It 
isn’t a snake.” The villagers contradicted her. She had 
put the word into their minds, and they refused to aban- 
don it. Aziz admitted that it looked like a tree through 
the glasses, but insisted that it was a black cobra really, 
and improvised some rubbish about protective mimicry. 
Nothing was explained, and yet there was no romance. 
Films of heat, radiated from the Kawa Dol precipices, 
increased the confusion. They came at irregular intervals 
and moved capriciously. A patch of field would jump as 
if it was being fried, and then lie quiet. As they drew 
closer the radiation stopped. 

The elephant walked straight at the Kawa Dol as if 
she would knock for admission with her forehead, then 
swerved, and followed a path round its base. The stones 
plunged straight into the earth, like cliffs into the sea, 
and while Miss Quested was remarking on this, and say- 
ing that it was striking, the plain quietly disappeared, 
peeled off, so to speak, and nothing was to be seen on 
either side but the granite, very dead and quiet. The sky 
dominated as usual, but seemed unhealthily near, adher- 
ing like a ceiling to the summits of the precipices. It was 
as if the contents of the corridor had never been changed. 
Occupied by his own munificence, Aziz noticed nothing. 
His guests noticed a little. They did not feel that it 
was an attractive place or quite worth visiting, and 
wished it could have turned into some Mohammedan 
object, such as a mosque, which their host would have 
appreciated and explained. His ignorance became evi- 
dent, and was really rather a drawback. In spite of his 
gay, confident talk, he had no notion how to treat this 
particular aspect of India; he was lost in it without Pro- 
fessor Godbole, like themselves. 

The corridor narrowed, then widened into a sort of 
tray. Here, more or less, was their goal. A ruined tank 
held a little water which would do for the animals, and 
close above the mud was punched a black hole—the first 


142 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


of the caves. Three hills encircled the tray. Two of 
them pumped out heat busily, but the third was in shadow, 
and here they camped. 

“A horrid, stuffy place really,” murmured Mrs. Moore 
to herself. 

“How quick your servants are!”’ Miss Quested ex- 
claimed. For a cloth had already been laid, with a vase 
of artificial flowers in its centre, and Mahmoud Ali’s 
butler offered them poached eggs and tea for the second 
time. 

“T thought we would eat this before our caves, and 
breakfast after.” 

“Tsn’t this breakfast?” 

“This breakfast? Did you think I should treat you 
so strangely?’”’ He had been warned that English people 
never stop eating, and that he had better nourish them 
every two hours until a solid meal was ready. 

“How very well it is all arranged.” 

“That you shall tell me when I return to Chandrapore. 
Whatever disgraces I bring upon myself, you remain my 
guests.” He spoke gravely now. They were dependent 
on him for a few hours, and he felt grateful to them for 
placing themselves in such a position. All was well so 
far; the elephant held a fresh cut bough to her lips, the 
tonga shafts stuck up into the air, the kitchen-boy peeled 
potatoes, Hassan shouted, and Mohammed Latif stood as 
he ought, with a peeled switch in his hand. The expedi- 
tion was a success, and it was Indian; an obscure young 
man had been allowed to show courtesy to visitors from 
another country, which is what all Indians long to do— 
even cynics like Mahmoud Ali—but they never have the 
chance. Hospitality had been achieved, they were “his ” 
guests; his honour was involved in their happiness, and 
any discomfort they endured would tear his own soul. 

Like most Orientals, Aziz overrated hospitality, mis- 
taking it for intimacy, and not seeing that it is tainted 
with the sense of possession. It was only when Mrs. 


CAVES 143 


Moore or Fielding was near him that he saw further, 
and knew that it is more blessed to receive than to give. 
These two had strange and beautiful effects on him— 
they were his friends, his for ever, and he theirs for ever ; 
he loved them so much that giving and receiving became 
one. He loved them even better than the Hamidullah’s 
because he had surmounted obstacles to meet them, and 
this stimulates a generous mind. Their images remained 
somewhere in his soul up to his dying day, permanent 
additions. He looked at her now as she sat on a deck- 
chair, sipping his tea, and had for a moment a joy that 
held the seeds of its own decay, for it would lead him to 
think, ‘‘ Oh, what more can I do for her?” and so back 
to the dull round of hospitality. The black bullets of his 
eyes filled with soft expressive light, and he said, “‘ Do 
you ever remember our mosque, Mrs. Moore?”’ 

“T do. I do,” she said, suddenly vital and young. 

“And how rough and rude I was, and how good you 
were.” 

“And how happy we both were.” 

“Friendships last longest that begin like that, I think. 
Shall I ever entertain your other children? ”’ 

“Do you know about the others? She will never talk 
about them to me,” said Miss Quested, unintentionally 
breaking a spell. 

“ Ralph and Stella, yes, I know everything about them. 
But we must not forget to visit our caves. One of the 
dreams of my life is accomplished in having you both 
here as my guests. You cannot imagine how you have 
honoured me. I feel like the Emperor Babur.”’ 

“ Why like him?” she enquired, rising. 

“ Because my ancestors came down with him from 
Afghanistan. They joined him at Herat. He also had 
often no more elephants than one, none sometimes, but 
he never ceased showing hospitality. When he fought or 
hunted or ran away, he would always stop for a time 
among hills, just like us; he would never let go of hospi- 


144 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


tality and pleasure, and if there was only a little food, 
he would have it arranged nicely, and if only one musical 
instrument, he would compel it to play a beautiful tune. I 
take him as my ideal. He is the poor gentleman, and 
he became a great king.” 

“T thought another Emperor is your favourite—lI for- 
get the name—you mentioned him at Mr. Fielding’s: 
what my book calls Aurangzebe.” 

“Alamgir? Oh yes, he was of course the more pious. 
But Babur—never in his whole life did he betray a- 
friend, so I can only think of him this morning. And 
you know how he died? He laid down his life for his 
son. A death far more difficult than battle. They were 
caught in the heat. They should have gone back to Kabul 
for the bad weather, but could not for reasons of state, 
and at Agra Humayun fell sick. Babur walked round 
the bed three times, and said, ‘ I have borne it away,’ and 
he did bear it away; the fever left his son and came to 
him instead, and he died. That is why I prefer Babur 
to Alamgir. I ought not to do so, but I do. However, 
I mustn’t delay you. I see you are ready to start.” 

“Not at all,” she said, sitting down by Mrs. Moore 
again. ‘‘ We enjoy talk like this very much.” For at 
last he was talking about what he knew and felt, talking 
as he had in Fielding’s garden-house; he was again the 
Oriental guide whom they appreciated. 

“T always enjoy conversing about the Moguls. It is 
the chief pleasure I know. You see, those first six em- 
perors were all most wonderful men, and as soon as one 
of them is mentioned, no matter which, I forget every- 
thing else in the world except the other five. You could 
not find six such kings in all the countries of the earth, 
not, I mean, coming one after the other—father, son.” 

“ Tell us something about Akbar.” 

“Ah, you have heard the name of Akbar. Good. 
Hamidullah—whom you shall meet—will tell you that 
Akbar is the greatest of all. I say, ‘ Yes, Akbar is very 


CAVES 145 


wonderful, but half a Hindu; he was not a true Mosiem,’ 
which makes Hamidullah cry, ‘ No more was Babur, he 
drank wine. But Babur always repented afterwards, 
which makes the entire difference, and Akbar never re- 
pented of the new religion he invented instead of the 
Holy Koran.” 

“ But wasn’t Akbar’s new religion very fine? It was 
to embrace the whole of India.” 

“Miss Quested, fine but foolish. You keep your re- 
ligion, I mine. That is the best. Nothing embraces the 
whole of India, nothing, nothing, and that was Akbar’s 
mistake.”’ 

“Oh, do you feel that, Dr. Aziz?” she said thought- 
fully. “I hope you’re not right. There will have to 
be something universal in this country—I don’t say re- 
ligion, for I’m not religious, but something, or how else 
are barriers to be broken down? ”’ 

She was only recommending the universal brotherhood 
he sometimes dreamed of, but as soon as it was put into 
prose it became untrue. 

“Take my own case,” she continued—it was indeed 
her own case that had animated her. “I don’t know 
whether you happen to have heard, but I’m going to 
marry Mr. Heaslop.”’ 

“On which my heartiest congratulations.” 

“Mrs. Moore, may I put our difficulty to Dr.’ Aziz 
—TI mean our Anglo-Indian one?”’ 

“Tt is your difficulty, not mine, my dear.”’ 

“ Ah, that’s true. Well, by marrying Mr. Heaslop, I 
shall become what is known as an Anglo-Indian.” 

He held up his hand in protest. “Impossible. Take 
back such a terrible remark.” 

“But I shall! it’s inevitable. I can’t avoid the label. 
What I do hope to avoid is the mentality. Women 
like ” She stopped, not quite liking to mention 
names; she would boldly have said ‘‘ Mrs. Turton and 
Mrs. Callendar”’ a fortnight ago. “Some women are 





a A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


so—well, ungenerous and snobby about Indians, and I 
should feel too ashamed for words if I turned like them, 
but—and here’s my difficulty—there’s nothing special 
about me, nothing specially good or strong, which will 
help me to resist my environment and avoid becoming 
like them. I’ve most lamentable defects. That’s why I 
want Akbar’s ‘universal religion’ or the equivalent to 
keep me decent and sensible. Do you see what I mean?” 

Her remarks pleased him, but his mind shut up tight 
because she had alluded to her marriage. He was not 
going to be mixed up in that side of things. “ You are 
certain to be happy with any relative of Mrs. Moore’s,” 
he said with a formal bow. 

“Oh, my happiness—that’s quite another problem. I 
want to consult you about this Anglo-Indian difficulty. 
Can you give me any advice?” 

“You are absolutely unlike the others, I assure you. 
You will never be rude to my people.” 

“T am told we all get rude after a year.” 

“Then you are told a lie,’ he flashed, for she had ~ 
spoken the truth and it touched him on the raw; it was 
itself an insult in these particular circumstances. He re- 
covered himself at once and laughed, but her error broke 
up their conversation—their civilization it had almost 
been—which scattered like the petals of a desert flower, 
and left them in the middle of the hills. ‘“‘ Come along,” 
he said, holding out a hand to each. They got up a little 
reluctantly, and addressed themselves to sightseeing. 

The first cave was tolerably convenient. They skirted 
the puddle of water, and then climbed up over some un- 
attractive stones, the sun crashing on their backs. Bend- 
ing their heads, they disappeared one by one into the 
interior of the hills. The small black hole gaped where 
their varied forms and colours had momentarily func- 
tioned. They were sucked in like water down a drain. 
Bland and bald rose the precipices; bland and glutinous 
the sky that connected the precipices; solid and white, a 


CAVES 147 


Brahminy kite flapped between the rocks with a clumsiness 
that seemed intentional. Before man, with his itch for 
the seemly, had been born, the planet must have looked 
thus. The kite flapped away. . . . Before birds, per- 
haps. . . . And then the hole belched and humanity re- 
turned. 

A. Marabar cave had been horrid as far as Mrs Moore 
was concerned, for she had nearly fainted in it, and had 
some difficulty in preventing herself from saying so as 
soon as she got into the air again. It was natural 
enough: she had always suffered from faintness, and the 
cave had become too full, because all their retinue fol- 
lowed them. Crammed with villagers and servants, the 
circular chamber began to smell. She lost Aziz and Adela 
in the dark, didn’t know who touched her, couldn’t 
breathe, and some vile naked thing struck her face and 
settled on her mouth like a pad. She tried to regain the 
entrance tunnel, but an influx of villagers swept her back. 
She hit her head. For an instant she went mad, hitting 
and gasping like a fanatic. For not only did the crush 
and stench alarm her; there was also a terrifying echo. 

Professor Godbole had never mentioned an echo; it 
never impressed him, perhaps. There are some exquisite 
echoes in India; there is the whisper round the dome at 
Bijapur; there are the long, solid sentences that voyage 
through the air at Mandu, and return unbroken to their 
creator. The echo in a Marabar cave is not like these, 
it is entirely devoid of distinction. Whatever is said, the 
same monotonous noise replies, and quivers up and down 
the walls until it is absorbed into the roof. ‘‘ Boum” 
is the sound as far as the human alphabet can express 
it, or “ bou-oum,” or “ ou-boum,”’—utterly dull. Hope, 
politeness, the blowing of a nose, the squeak of a boot, 
all produce “boum.” Even the striking of a match starts 
a little worm coiling, which is too small to complete a 
circle but is eternally watchful. And if several people 
talk at once, an overlapping howling noise begins, echoes 


148 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


generate echoes, and the cave is stuffed with a snake com- 
posed of small snakes, which writhe independently. 

After Mrs. Moore all the others poured out. She had 
given the signal for the reflux. Aziz and Adela both 
emerged smiling and she did not want him to think his 
treat was a failure, so smiled too. As each person 
emerged she looked for a villain, but none was there, 
and she realized that she had been among the mildest 
individuals, whose only desire was to honour her, and 
that the naked pad was a poor little baby, astride its 
mother’s hip. Nothing evil had been in the cave, but 
she had not enjoyed herself; no, she had not enjoyed 
herself, and she decided not to visit a second one. 

“Did you see the reflection of his match—rather 
pretty?” asked Adela. 

malatorcet iim 

“But he says this isn’t a good cave, the best are on 
the Kawa Dol.” 

“T don’t think I shall go on to there. I dislike climb- 
ing.” 

“Very well, let’s sit down again in the shade until 
breakfast’s ready.” 

“Ah, but that’ll disappoint him so; he has taken such 
trouble. You should go on; you don’t mind.” 

“ Perhaps I ought to,” said the girl, indifferent to what 
she did, but desirous of being amiable. 

The servants, etc., were scrambling back to the camp, 
pursued by grave censures from Mohammed Latif. Aziz 
came to help the guests over the rocks. He was at the 
summit of his powers, vigorous and humble, too sure of 
himself to resent criticism, and he was sincerely pleased 
when he heard they were altering his plans. ‘“‘ Certainly, 
Miss Quested, so you and I will go together, and leave 
Mrs. Moore here, and we will not be long, yet we will 
not hurry, because we know that will be her wish.” 

“Quite right. I’m sorry not to come too, but I’m a 
poor walker.” 


CAVES 149 


** Dear Mrs. Moore, what does anything matter so long 
as you are my guests? I am very glad you are not 
coming, which sounds strange, but you are treating me 
with true frankness, as a friend.” 

“Yes, [ am your friend,” she said, laying her hand on 
his sleeve, and thinking, despite her fatigue, how very 
charming, how very good, he was, and how deeply she 
desired his happiness. “So may I make another sugges- 
tion? Don’t let so many people come with you this 
time. I think you may find it more convenient.” 

“ Exactly, exactly,” he cried, and, rushing to the other 
extreme, forbade all except one guide to accompany Miss 
Quested and him to the Kawa Dol. “ Is that all right?” 
he enquired. 

“Quite right, now enjoy yourselves, and when you 
come back tell me all about it.’ And she sank into the 
deck-chair. 

If they reached the big pocket of caves, they would 
be away nearly an hour. She took out her writing-pad, 
and began, “Dear Stella, Dear Ralph,’ then stopped, 
and looked at the queer valley and their feeble invasion 
of it. Even the elephant had become a nobody. Her 
eye rose from it to the entrance tunnel. No, she did not 
wish to repeat that experience. The more she thought 
over it, the more disagreeable and frightening it became. 
She minded it much more now than at the time. The 
crush and the smells she could forget, but the echo began 
in some indescribable way to undermine her hold on life. 
Coming at a moment when she chanced to be fatigued, it 
had managed to murmur, “ Pathos, piety, courage—they 
exist, but are identical, and so is filth. Everything exists, 
nothing has value.” If one had spoken vileness in that 
_ place, or quoted lofty poetry, the comment would have 
been the same—“ ou-boum.”’ If one had spoken with the 
tongues of angels and pleaded for all the unhappiness 
and misunderstanding in the worlu, past, present, and to 
come, for all the misery men must undergo whatever 


150 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


their opinion and position, and however much they dodge 
or bluff—it would amount to the same, the serpent would 
descend and return to the ceiling. Devils are of the 
North, and poems can be written about them, but no one 
could romanticize the Marabar because it robbed infinity 
and eternity of their vastness, the only quality that ac- 
commodates them to mankind. 

She tried to go on with her letter, reminding herself 
that she was only an elderly woman who had got up too 
early in the morning and journeyed too far, that the 
despair creeping over her was merely her despair, her 
personal weakness, and that even if she got a sunstroke 
and went mad the rest of the world would go on. But 
suddenly, at the edge of her mind, Religion appeared, 
poor little talkative Christianity, and she knew that all 
its divine words from “ Let there be Light” to “It is 
finished ” only amounted to “ boum.’’ Then she was ter- 
rified over an area larger than usual; the universe, never 
comprehensible to her intellect, offered no repose to her 
soul, the mood of the last two months took definite form 
at last, and she realized that she didn’t want to write to 
her children, didn’t want to communicate with anyone, 
not even with God. She sat motionless with horror, and, 
when old Mohammed Latif came up to her, thought he 
would notice a difference. For a time she thought, “I 
am going to be ill,’ to comfort herself, then she sur- 
rendered to the vision. She lost all interest, even in Aziz, 
and the affectionate and sincere words that she had spoken 
to him seemed no longer hers but the air’s. 


CHAPTER XV 


ISS QUESTED and Aziz and a guide continued the 
slightly tedious expedition. They did not talk 

much, for the sun was getting high. The air felt like a 
warm bath into which hotter water is trickling constantly, 


CAVES 151 


the temperature rose and rose, the boulders said, “ I am 
alive,’ the small stones answered, ‘‘ I am almost alive.” 
Between the chinks lay the ashes of little plants. They 
meant to climb to the rocking-stone on the summit, but 
it was too far, and they contented themselves with the 
big group of caves. En route for these, they encoun- 
tered several isolated caves, which the guide persuaded 
them to visit, but really there was nothing to see; they 
lit a match, admired its reflection in the polish, tested 
the echo and came out again. Aziz was “pretty sure 
they should come on some interesting old carvings soon,” 
but only meant he wished there were some carvings. His 
deeper thoughts were about the breakfast. Symptoms of 
disorganization had appeared as he left the camp. He 
ran over the menu: an English breakfast, porridge and 
mutton chops, but some Indian dishes to cause conversa- 
tion, and pan afterwards. He had never liked Miss 
Quested as much as Mrs. Moore, and had little to say to 
her, less than ever now that she would marry a British 
official. 

Nor had Adela much to say to him. If his mind was 
with the breakfast, hers was mainly with her marriage. 
Simla next week, get rid of Antony, a view of Thibet, 
tiresome wedding bells, Agra in October, see Mrs. Moore 
comfortably off from Bombay—the procession passed 
before her again, blurred by the heat, and then she turned 
to the more serious business of her life at Chandrapore. 
There were real difficulties here—Ronny’s limitations and 
her own—but she enjoyed facing difficulties, and decided 
that if she could control her peevishness (always her weak 
point), and neither rail against Anglo-India nor succumb 
_ to it, their married life ought to be happy and profitable. 
She mustn’t be too theoretical; she would deal with each 
problem as it came up, and trust to Ronny’s common 
sense and her own. Luckily, each had abundance of com- 
mon sense and good will. 

But as she toiled over a rock that resembled an in- 


152 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


verted saucer, she thought, “ What about love?” The 
rock was nicked by a double row of footholds, aud some- 
how the question was suggested by them. Where had she 
seen footholds before? Oh yes, they were the pattern 
traced in the dust by the wheels of the Nawab Bahadur’s 
car. She and Ronny—no, they did not love each other. 

; Dov etake you ttoastast :ssrenqiircds\ zizomeaue 
had paused, a doubtful expression on her face. The dis- 
covery had come so suddenly that she felt like a moun- 
taineer whose rope had broken. Not to love the man 
one’s going to marry! Not to find it out till this mo- 
ment! Not even to have asked oneself the question until 
now! Something else to think out. Vexed rather than 
appalled, she stood still, her eyes on the sparkling rock. 
There was esteem and animal contact at dusk, but the 
emotion that links them was absent. Ought she to break 
her engagement off? She was inclined to think not—it 
would cause so much trouble to others ; besides, she wasn’t 
convinced that love is necessary to a successful union. If 
love is everything, few marriages would survive the 
honeymoon. “ No, I’m all right, thanks,” she said, and, 
her emotions well under control, resumed the climb, 
though she felt a bit dashed. Aziz held her hand, the 
guide adhered to the surface like a lizard and scampered 
about as if governed by a personal centre of gravity. 

“Are you married, Dr. Aziz?” she asked, stopping 
again, and frowning. 

“Yes, indeed, do come and see my wife ’’—for he felt 
it more artistic to have his wife alive for a moment. 

“Thank you,” she said absently. 

“ She is not in Chandrapore just now.” 

** And have you children? ” 

“Yes, indeed, three,” he replied in firmer tones. 

* Are they a great pleasure to you?” 

“Why, naturally, I adore them,” he laughed. 

“T suppose so.” What a handsome little Oriental he 
was, and no doubt his wife and children were beautiful 


CAVES 153 


too, for people usually get what they already possess. 
She did not admire him with any personal warmth, for 
there was nothing of the vagrant in her blood, but she 
guessed he might attract women of his own race and 
rank, and she regretted that neither she nor Ronny had 
physical charm. It does make a difference in a relation- 
ship—beauty, thick hair, a fine skin. Probably this man 
had several wives—Mohammedans always insist on their 
full four, according to Mrs. Turton. And having no 
one else to speak to on that eternal rock, she gave rein 
to the subject of marriage and said in her honest, decent, 
inquisitive way: “ Have you one wife or more than 
one?” 

The question shocked the young man very much. It 
challenged a new conviction of his community, and new 
convictions are more sensitive than old. If she had said, 
“Do you worship one god or several?” he would not 
have objected. But to ask an educated Indian Moslem 
how many wives he has—appalling, hideous! He was in 
trouble how to conceal his confusion. “One, one in my 
own particular case,’”’ he sputtered, and let go of her hand. 
Quite a number of caves were at the top of the track, 
and thinking, “‘Damn the English even at their best,” 
he plunged into one of them to recover his balance. She 
followed at her leisure, quite unconscious that she had 
said the wrong thing, and not seeing him, she also went 
into a cave, thinking with half her mind “ sight-seeing 
bores me,” and wondering with the other half about mar- 
riage. 


CHAPTER XVI 


E waited in his cave a minute, and lit a cigarette, 
so that he could remark on rejoining her, “I bolted 
in to get out of the draught,” or something of the sort. 
When he returned, he found the guide, alone, with his 


154 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


head on one side. He had heard a noise, he said, and 
then Aziz heard it too: the noise of a motor-car. They 
were now on the outer shoulder of the Kawa Dol, and 
by scrambling twenty yards they got a glimpse of the 
plain. A car was coming towards the hills down the 
Chandrapore road. But they could not get a good view 
of it, because the precipitous bastion curved at the top, 
so that the base was not easily seen and the car disap- 
peared as it came nearer. No doubt it would stop almost 
exactly beneath them, at the place where the pukka road 
degenerated into a path, and the elephant had turned to 
sidle into the hills. 

He ran back to tell the strange news to his guest. 

The guide explained that she had gone into a cave. 

“Which cave?” 

He indicated the group vaguely. 

“ You should have kept her in sight, it was your duty,” 
said Aziz severely. ‘‘ Here are twelve caves at least. 
How am I to know which contains my guest? Which 
is the cave I was in myself?” 

The same vague gesture. And Aziz, looking again, 
could not even be sure he had returned to the same 
group. Caves appeared in every direction—it seemed 
their original spawning place—and the orifices were 
always the same size. He thought, “ Merciful Heavens, 
Miss Quested is lost,’”’ then pulled himself together, ard 
began to look for her calmly. 

“* Shout!’ he commanded. 

When they had done this for awhile, the guide ex- 
plained that to shout is useless, because a Marabar cave 
can hear no sound but its own. Aziz wiped his head, and 
sweat began to stream inside his clothes. The place was 
so confusing; it was partly a terrace, partly a zigzag, and 
full of grooves that led this way and that like snake- 
tracks. He tried to go into every one, but he never knew 
where he had started. Caves got behind caves or con- 


CAVES 155 


fabulated in pairs, and some were at the entrance of a 
gully. 

“Come here!” he called gently, and when the guide 
was in reach, he struck him in the face for a punishment. 
The man fled, and he was left alone. He thought, “ This 
is the end of my career, my guest is lost.” And then 
he discovered the simple and sufficient explanation of the 
mystery. 

Miss Quested wasn’t lost. She had joined the people 
in the car—friends of hers, no doubt, Mr. Heaslop per- 
haps. He had a sudden glimpse of her, far down the 
gully—only a glimpse, but there she was quite plain, 
framed between rocks, and speaking to another lady. He 
was so relieved that he did not think her conduct odd. 
Accustomed to sudden changes of plan, he supposed that 
she had run down the Kawa Dol impulsively, in the 
hope of a little drive. He started back alone towards his 
camp, and almost at once caught sight of something which 
would have disquieted him very much a moment before: 
Miss Quested’s field glasses. They were lying at the 
verge of a cave, half-way down an entrance tunnel. He 
tried to hang them over his shoulder, but the leather 
strap had broken, so he put them into his pocket instead. 
When he had gone a few steps, he thought she might 
have dropped something else, so he went back to look. 
But the previous difficulty recurred: he couldn’t identify 
the cave. Down in the plain he heard the car starting; 
however, he couldn’t catch a second glimpse of that. So 
he scrambled down the valley-face of the hill towards 
Mrs. Moore, and here he was more successful: the colour 
and confusion of his little camp soon appeared, and in 
the midst of it he saw an Englishman’s topi, and be- 
neath it—oh, joy!—smiled not Mr. Heaslop, but Field- 
ing. 

“Fielding! Oh, I have so wanted you!” he cried, 
dropping the “‘ Mr.” for the first time. 


156 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


And his friend ran to meet him, all so pleasant and 
jolly, no dignity, shouting explanations and apologies 
about the train. Fielding had come in the newly ar- 
rived car—Miss Derek’s car—that other lady was Miss 
Derek. Chatter, chatter, all the servants leaving their 
cooking to listen. Excellent Miss Derek! She had met 
Fielding by chance at the post office, said, “‘ Why haven’t 
you gone to the Marabar?”’ heard how he missed the 
train, offered to run him there and then. Another nice 
English lady. Where was she? Left with car and chauf- 
feur while Fielding found camp. Car couldn’t get up— 
no, of course not—hundreds of people must go down to 
escort Miss Derek and show her the way. The elephant 
Inepersons casi 

“* Aziz, can I have a drink? ”’ 

PiCertainly nots. llemiewsto. cet one: 

“Mr. Fielding!” called Mrs. Moore, from her patch of 
shade; they had not spoken yet, because his arrival had 
coincided with the torrent from the hill. 

“Good morning again!” he cried, relieved to find all 
well. 

“Mr. Fielding, have you seen Miss Quested? ” 

“But I’ve only just arrived. Where is she?” 

“T do not know.” 

“Aziz! Where have you put Miss Quested to?” 

Aziz, who was returning with a drink in his hand, had 
to think fora moment. His heart was full of new happi- 
ness. The picnic, after a nasty shock or two, had devel- 
oped into something beyond his dreams, for Fielding had 
not only come, but brought an uninvited guest. ‘“ Oh, 
she’s all right,’ he said; “she went down to see Miss 
Derek. Well, here’s luck! Chin-chin! ” 

“ Here’s luck, but chin-chin I do refuse,”’ laughed Field- 
ing, who detested the phrase. “ Here’s to India!” 

‘* Here’s luck, and here’s to England!” 

Miss Derek’s chauffeur stopped the cavalcade which 
was starting to escort his mistress up, and informed it 


CAVES 157 


that she had gone back with the other young lady to 
Chandrapore; she had sent him to say so, She was 
driving herself. 

mecimyesjetiat s quiteslikely;+ said® Azizi ale knew 
they’d gone for a spin.” 

“Chandrapore? The man’s made a mistake,” Field- 
ing exclaimed. 

“Oh no, why?”’ He was disappointed, but made light 
ef it‘ no doubt the two young ladies were great friends. 
He would prefer to give breakfast to all four; still, guests 
must do as they wish, or they become prisoners. He went 
away cheerfully to inspect the porridge and the ice. 

“What's happened?” asked Fielding, who felt at once 
that something had gone queer. All the way out Miss 
Derek had chattered about the picnic, called it an un- 
expected treat, and said that she preferred Indians who 
didn’t invite her to their entertainments to those who did 
it. Mrs. Moore sat swinging her foot, and appeared sulky 
and stupid. She said: ‘‘ Miss Derek is most unsatisfac- 
tory and restless, always in a hurry, always wanting 
something new; she will do anything in the world except 
go back to the Indian lady who pays her.” 

Fielding, who didn’t dislike Miss Derek, replied: “ She 
wasn’t ina hurry when I left her. There was no question 
of returning to Chandrapore. It looks to me as if Miss 
Quested’s in the hurry.”’ 

“ Adela ?—she’s never been in a hurry in her life,” said 
the old lady sharply. 

“T say it'll prove to be Miss Quested’s wish, in fact 
I know it is,’ persisted the schoolmaster. He was an- 
noyed—chiefly with himself. He had begun by missing 
a train—a sin he was never guilty of—and now that he 
did arrive it was to upset Aziz’ arrangements for the 
second time. He wanted someone to share the blame, and 
frowned at Mrs. Moore rather magisterially. “ Aziz is a 
charming fellow,” he announced. 

“T know,” she answered, with a yawn. 


158 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“He has taken endless trouble to make a success of 
our picnic.” 

They knew one another very little, and felt rather awk- 
ward at being drawn together by an Indian. The racial 
problem can take subtle forms. In their case it had in- 
duced a sort of jealousy, a mutual suspicion. He tried 
to goad her enthusiasm; she scarcely spoke. Aziz fetched 
them to breakfast. 

“Tt is quite natural about Miss Quested,” he remarked, 
for he had been working the incident a little in his mind, 
to get rid of its roughnesses. ‘‘ We were having an in- 
teresting talk with our guide, then the car was seen, so 
she decided to go down to her friend.” Incurably inac- 
curate, he already thought that this was what had oc- 
curred. He was inaccurate because he was sensitive. He 
did not like to remember Miss Quested’s remark about 
polygamy, because it was unworthy of a guest, so he put 
it from his mind, and with it the knowledge that he had 
bolted into a cave to get away from her. He was in- 
accurate because he desired to honour her, and—facts 
being entangled—he had to arrange them in her vicinity, 
as one tidies the ground after extracting a weed. Before 
breakfast was over, he had told a good many lies. ‘‘ She 
ran to her friend, I to mine,”’ he went on, smiling. “ And 
now J am with my friends and they are with me and 
each other, which is happiness.” 

Loving them both, he expected them to love each other. 
They didn’t want to. Fielding thought with hostility, 
““T knew these women would make trouble,’ and Mrs. 
Moore thought, ‘This man, having missed the train, 
tries to blame us”’; but her thoughts were feeble; since 
her faintness in the cave she was sunk in apathy and 
cynicism. The wonderful India of her opening weeks, 
with its cool nights and acceptable hints of infinity, had 
vanished. 

Fielding ran up to see one cave. He wasn’t impressed. 
Then they got on the elephant and the picnic began to 


CAVES 159 


unwind out of the corridor and escaped under the preci- 
pice towards the railway station, pursued by stabs of hot 
air. They came to the place where he had quitted the 
car. A disagreeable thought now struck him, and he said: 
“Aziz, exactly where and how did you leave Miss 
Quested ?”’ 

“Up there.” He indicated the Kawa Dol cheerfully. 

“ But how A gully, or rather a crease, showed 
among the rocks at this place; it was scurfy with cactuses. 
“‘T suppose the guide helped her.” 

“Oh, rather, most helpful.” 

“Is there a path off the top? ” 

“Millions of paths, my dear fellow.” 

Fielding could see nothing but the crease. Every- 
where else the glaring granite plunged into the earth. 

“But you saw them get down safe? ”’ 

“Yes, yes, she and Miss Derek, and go off in the car.” 

‘Then the guide came back to you?” 

“Exactly. Got a cigaretter ” 

“‘T hope she wasn’t ill,’ pursued the Englishman. The 
crease continued as a nullah across the plain, the water 
draining off this way towards the Ganges. 

“* She would have wanted me, if she was ill, to attend 
her; 

“Yes, that sounds sense.” 

“‘T see you’re worrying, let’s talk of other things,” he 
said kindly. “‘ Miss Quested was always to do what she 
wished, it was our arrangement. I see you are worry- 
ing on my account, but really I don’t mind, I never notice 
trifles.” 

“J do worry on your account. I consider they have 
been impolite!” said Fielding, lowering his voice. “‘ She 
had no right to dash away from your party, and Miss 
Derek had no right to abet her.” 

So touchy as a rule, Aziz was unassailable. The wings 
that uplifted him did not falter, because he was a Mogul 
emperor who had done his duty. Perched on his elephant, 





160 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


he watched the Marabar Hills recede, and saw again, as 
provinces of his kingdom, the grim untidy plain, the 
frantic and feeble movements of the buckets, the white 
shrines, the shallow graves, the suave sky, the snake 
that looked like a tree. He had given his guests as good 
a time as he could, and if they came late or left early 
that was not his affair. Mrs. Moore slept, swaying 
against the rods of the howdah, Mohammed Latif em- 
braced her with efficiency and respect, and by his own 
side sat Fielding, whom he began to think of as “ Cyril.” 
“ Aziz, have you figured out what this picnic will cost 
Ours 

“Sh! my dear chap, don’t mention that part. Hun- 
dreds and hundreds of rupees. The completed account 
will be too awful; my friends’ servants have robbed me 
right and left, and as for an elephant, she apparently eats 
gold. I can trust you not to repeat this. And M.L.— 
please employ initials, he listens—is far the worst of 
aliag 

“T told you he’s no good.” 

“He is plenty of good for himself; his dishonesty will 
ruin me,” 

** Aziz, how monstrous! ”’ 

“JT am delighted with him really, he has made my 
guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, 
he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money 
stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu 
proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it.”’ 

“My proverbs are: A penny saved is a penny earned; 
A stitch in time saves nine; Look before you leap; and 
the British Empire rests on them. You will never kick 
us out, you know, until you cease employing M.L.’s and 
such.” 

“Oh, kick you out? Why should I trouble over that 
dirty job? Leave it to the politicians. . . . No, when 
I was a student I got excited over your damned country- 
men, certainly; but if they'll let me get on with my pro- 


CAVES 161 


fession and not be too rude to me officially, I really don’t 
ask for more.” 

“ But you do; you take them to a picnic.” 

“This picnic is nothing to do with English or Indian; 
it is an expedition of friends.”’ 

So the cavalcade ended, partly pleasant, partly not; the 
Brahman cook was picked up, the train arrived, pushing 
its burning throat over the plain, and the twentieth cen- 
tury took over from the sixteenth. Mrs. Moore entered 
her carriage, the three men went to theirs, adjusted the 
shutters, turned on the electric fan and tried to get some 
sleep. In the twilight, all resembled corpses, and the train 
itself seemed dead though it moved—a coffin from the 
scientific north which troubled the scenery four times a 
day. As it left the Marabars, their nasty little cosmos dis- 
appeared, and gave place to the Marabars seen from a 
distance, finite and rather romantic. The train halted 
once under a pump, to drench the stock of coal in its 
tender. Then it caught sight of the main line in the dis- 
tance, took courage, and bumped forward, rounded the 
civil station, surmounted the level-crossing (the rails 
were scorching now), and clanked to a standstill. Chan- 
drapore, Chandrapore! ‘The expedition was over. 

And as it ended, as they sat up in the gloom and pre- 
pared to enter ordinary life, suddenly the long drawn 
strangeness of the morning snapped. Mr. Hag, the !n- 
spector of Police, flung open the door of their carriage 
and said in shrill tones: ‘ Dr, Aziz, it is my highly pain- 
ful duty to arrest you.” 

“Hullo, some mistake,’ 
charge of the situation. 

“Sir, they are my instructions. I know nothing.” 

“On what charge do you arrest him?” 

“ T am under instructions not to say.” 

* Don’t answer me like that. Produce your warrant.” 

“Sir, excuse me, no warrant is required under these 
particular circumstances. Refer to Mr. McBryde.” 


b 


said Fielding, at once taking 


162 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“ Very well, so we will. Come along, Aziz, old man; 
nothing to fuss about, some blunder.” ) 

“ Dr. Aziz, will you kindly come ?—a closed conveyance 
stands in readiness,” 

The young man sobbed—his first sound—and tried to 
escape out of the opposite door on to the line. 

“That will compel me to use force,’ Mr. Haq wailed. 

‘‘Oh,for God’s sake -’ cried Fielding, his own 
nerves breaking under the contagion, and pulled him back 
before a scandal started, and shook him like a baby. A 
second later, and he would have been out, whistles blow- 
ing, a man-hunt.... “ Dear fellow, we’re coming to 
McBryde together, and enquire what’s gone wrong—he’s 
a decent fellow, it’s all unintentional . . . he'll apologize. 
Never, never act the criminal.” 

“My children and my name!” he gasped, his wings 
broken. 

“Nothing of the sort. Put your hat straight and take 
my arm. I'll see you through.” 

‘“‘ Ah, thank God, he comes,” the Inspector exclaimed. 

They emerged into the midday heat, arm in arm. The 
station was seething. Passengers and porters rushed out 
of every recess, many Government servants, more police. 
Ronny escorted Mrs. Moore. Mohammed Latif began 
wailing. And before they could make their way through 
the chaos, Fielding was called off by the authoritative 
tones of Mr. Turton, and Aziz went on to prison alone. 





CHAPTER XVII 


HE Collector had watched the arrest from the in- 
terior of the waiting-room, and throwing open its 
perforated doors of zinc, he was now revealed like a god 
in a shrine. When Fielding entered the doors clapped 
to, and were guarded by a servant, while a punkah, to 


CAVES 163 


mark the importance of the moment, flapped dirty petti- 
coats over their heads. The Collector could not speak at 
first. His face was white, fanatical, and rather beautiful 
—the expression that all English faces were to wear at 
Chandrapore for many days. Always brave and un- 
selfish, he was now fused by some white and generous 
heat; he would have killed himself, obviously, if he had 
thought it right to do so. He spoke at last. ‘‘ The worst 
thing in my whole career has happened,” he said. ‘‘ Miss 
Quested has been insulted in one of the Marabar caves.” 

“Oh no, oh no, no,” gasped the other, feeling sickish., 

““ She escaped—by God’s grace.” 

Ohno no; butinotsAziz 2... not Aziz fee). 

He nodded. 

* Absolutely impossible, grotesque.” 

“T called you to preserve you from the odium that 
would attach to you if you were seen accompanying him 
to the Police Station,” said Turton, paying no attention 
to his protest, indeed scarcely hearing it. 

He repeated “ Oh no,” like a fool. He couldn’t frame 
other words. He felt that a mass of madness had arisen 
and tried to overwhelm them all; it had to be shoved 
back into its pit somehow, and he didn’t know how to do 
it, because he did not understand madness: he had always 
gone about sensibly and quietly until a difficulty came 
right. ‘‘ Who lodges this infamous charge?’ he asked, 
pulling himself together. 

“Miss Derek and—the victim herself....” He 
nearly broke down, unable to repeat the girl’s name. 

“ Miss Quested herself definitely accuses him of 

He nodded and turned his face away. 

“Then she’s mad.” 

**T cannot pass that last remark,” said the Collector, 
waking up to the knowledge that they differed, and trem- 
bling with fury. “ You will withdraw it instantly. It is 
the type of remark you have permitted yourself to make 
ever since you came to Chandrapore.”’ 


3) 


39 





364 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“T’m excessively sorry, sir; I certainly withdraw it 
unconditionally.” Fvur the man was half mad himself. 

“ Pray, Mr. Fielding, what induced you to speak to me 
in such a tone?”’ 

“ The news gave me a very great shock, so I must ask 
you to forgive me. I cannot believe that Dr. Aziz is 
guilty.” 

He slammed his hand on the table. “ That—that is 
a repetition of your insult in an aggravated form.” 

“If I may venture to say so, no,” said Fielding, also 
going white, but sticking to his point. ‘I make no re- 
flection on the good faith of the two ladies, but the charge 
they are bringing against Aziz rests upon some mistake, 
and five minutes will clear it up. The man’s manner is 
perfectly natural; besides, I know him to be incapable 
of infamy.” 

“Tt does indeed rest upon a mistake,’ came the thin, 
biting voice of the other. “It does indeed. I have 
had twenty-five years’ experience of this country ’’—he 
paused, and “twenty-five years’ seemed to fill the wait- 
ing-room with their staleness and ungenerosity—* and 
during those twenty-five years I have never known any- 
thing but disaster result when English people and In- 
dians attempt to be intimate socially. Intercourse, yes. 
Courtesy, by all means. Intimacy—never, never. The 
whole weight of my authority is against it. I have been 
in charge at Chandrapore for six years, and if everything 
has gone smoothly, if there has been mutual respect and 
esteem, it is because both peoples kept to this simple rule. 
New-comers set our traditions aside, and in an instant 
what you see happens, the work of years is undone and 
the good name of my District ruined for a generation. 
{—I—can’t see the end of this day’s work, Mr. Fielding. 
You, who are imbued with modern ideas—no doubt you 
can. I wish I had never lived to see its beginning, I 
know that. It is the end of me. That a lady, that a 
young lady engaged to my most valued subordinate— 


bd 


CAVES 165 


that she—an English | girl fresh from England—that I 
should have lived 

Involved in his own emotions, he broke down. What 
he had said was both dignified and pathetic, but had it 
anything to do with Aziz? Nothing at all, if Fielding 
was right. It is impossible to regard a tragedy from two 
points of view, and whereas Turton had decided to avenge 
the girl, he hoped to save the man. He wanted to get 
away and talk to McBryde, who had always been friendly 
to him, was on the whole sensible, and could, anyhow, be 
trusted to keep cool. 

“T came down particularly on your account—while 
poor Heaslop got his mother away. I regarded it as the 
most friendly thing I could do. I meant to tell you that 
there will be an informal meeting at the club this evening 
to discuss the situation, but I am doubtful whether you 
will care to come. Your visits there are always infre- 

uent.”’ 

“‘T shall certainly come, sir, and I am most grateful 
to you for all the trouble you have taken over me. May 
T venture to ask—where Miss Quested is.” 

He replied with a gesture; she was ill. 

“Worse and worse, appalling,” he said feelingly. 

But the Collector looked at him sternly, because he 
was keeping his head. He had not gone mad at the 
phrase “an English girl fresh from England,” he had not 
rallied to the banner of race. He was still after facts, 
though the herd had decided on emotion. Nothing en- 
rages Anglo-India more than the lantern of reason if it 
is exhibited for one moment after its extinction is de- 
creed. All over Chandrapore that day the Europeans 
were putting aside their normal personalities and sinking 
themselves in their community. Pity, wrath, heroism, 
filled them, but the power of putting two and two together 
was annihilated. 

Terminating the interview, the Collector walked on to 
the platform. The confusion there was revolting. A 





166 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


chuprassi of Ronny’s had been told to bring up some 
trifles belonging to the ladies, and was appropriating for 
himself various articles to which he had no right; he was 
a camp follower of the angry English. Mohammed Latif 
made no attempt to resist him. Hassan flung off his 
turban, and wept. All the comforts that had been pro- 
vided so liberally were rolled about and wasted in the 
sun. The Collector took in the situation at a glance, and 
his sense of justice functioned though he was insane with 
rage. He spoke the necessary word, and the looting 
stopped. Then he drove off to his bungalow and gave 
rein to his passions again. When he saw the coolies 
asleep in the ditches or the shopkeepers rising to salute 
him on their little platforms, he said to himself: “TI 
know what you're like at last; you shall pay for this, you 
shall squeal.”’ 


CHAPTER XVIII 


R. McBRYDE, the District Superintendent of 
Police, was the most reflective and best educated 

of the Chandrapore officials. He had read and thought 
a good deal, and, owing to a somewhat unhappy mar- 
riage, had evolved a complete philosophy of life. There 
was much of the cynic abcut him, but nothing of the 
bully; he never lost his temper or grew rough, and he 
received Aziz with courtesy, was almost reassuring. “I 
have to detain you until you get bail,’ he said, “‘ but no 
doubt your friends will be applying for it, and of course 
they will be allowed to visit you, under regulations. I 
am given certain information, and have to act on it—I’m 
not your judge.” Aziz was led off weeping. Mr. 
McBryde was shocked at his downfall, but no Indian ever 
surprised him, because he had a theory about climatic 
zones. The theory ran: “All unfortunate natives are 
criminals at heart, for the simple reason that they live 


CAVES 167 


south of latitude 30. They are not to blame, they have 
not a dog’s chance—we should be like them if we settled 
here.” Born at Karachi, he seemed to contradict his 
theory, and would sometimes admit as much with a sad, 
quiet smile. 

“Another of them found out,” he thought, as he set 
to work to draft his statement to the Magistrate. 

He was interrupted by the arrival of Fielding. 

He imparted all he knew without reservations. Miss 
Derek had herself driven in the Mudkul car about an 
hour ago, she and Miss Quested both in a terrible state. 
They had gone straight to his bungalow where he hap- 
pened to be, and there and then he had taken down the 
charge and arranged for the arrest at the railway sta- 
tion. 

“What is the charge, precisely?” 

“That he followed her into the cave and made insult- 
ing advances. She hit at him with her field-glasses; he 
pulled at them and the strap broke, and that is how she 
got away. When we searched him just now, they were 
in his pocket.” 

“ Oh no, oh no, no; it'll be cleared up in five minutes,” 
he cried again. 

“‘ Have a look at them.” 

The strap had been newly broken, the eye-piece was 
jammed. The logic of evidence said “ Guilty.” 

‘Did she say any more? ” 

“ There was an echo that appears to have frightened 
her. Did you go into those caves? ”’ 

“T saw one of them. There was an echo. Did it get 
on her nerves?”’ 

“ T couldn’t worry her overmuch with questions. She'll 
have plenty to go through in the witness-box. They don’t 
bear thinking about, these next weeks. I wish the Mara- 
bar Hills and all they contain were at the bottom of the 
sea. Evening after evening one saw them from the 
club, and they were just a harmless name. . . . Yes, we 


168 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


start already.” For a visiting card was brought; Vakil 
Mahmoud Ali, legal adviser to the prisoner, asked to be 
allowed to see him. McBryde signed, gave permission, 
and continued: “I heard some more from Miss Derek— 
she is an old friend of us both and talks freely; well— 
her account is that you went off to locate the camp, and 
almost at once she heard stones falling on the Kawa Dol 
and saw Miss Quested running straight down the face of 
a precipice. Well. She climbed up a sort of gully to 
her, and found her practically done for—her helmet 
Ofer 

“Was a guide not with her?” interrupted Fielding. 

“No. She had got among some cactuses. Miss Derek 
saved her life coming just then—she was beginning to 
fling herself about. She helped her down to the car. 
Miss Quested couldn’t stand the Indian driver, cried, 
“Keep him away ’—and it was that that put our friend 
on the track of what had happened. They made straight 
for our bungalow, and are there now. ‘That’s the story 
as far as I know it yet. She sent the driver to join you. 
I think she behaved with great sense.” 

“T suppose there’s no possibility of my seeing Miss 
Quested?’”’ he asked suddenly. 

“T hardly think that would do. Surely.” 

“T was afraid you'ld say that. I should very much 
like to.” 

““She is in no state to see anyone. Besides, you don’t 
know her well.” 

“ Hardly at all. . . . But you see I believe she’s under 
some hideous delusion, and that that wretched boy is 
innocent.” 

The policeman started in surprise, and a shadow passed 
over his face, for he could not bear his dispositions to be 
upset. ‘I had no idea that was in your mind,” he said, 
and looked for support at the signed deposition, which 
lay before him. 

“Those field-glasses upset me for a minute, but I’ve 


CAVES 169 


thought since: it’s impossible that, having attempted to 
assault her, he would put her glasses into his pocket.” 

“ Quite possible, I’m afraid; when an Indian goes bad, 
he goes not only very bad, but very queer.” 

“I don’t follow.” 

“How should you? When you think of crime you 
think of English crime. The psychology here is differ- 
ent. I dare say you'll tell me next that he was quite 
normal when he came down from the hill to greet you. 
No reason he should not be. Read any of the Mutiny 
records; which, rather than the Bhagavad Gita, should 
be your Bible in this country. Though I’m not sure that 
the one and the other are not closely connected. Am I 
not being beastly? But, you see, Fielding, as I’ve said 
to you once before, you’re a schoolmaster, and conse- 
quently you come across these people at their best. That’s 
what puts you wrong. They can be charming as boys. 
But I know them as they really are, after they have 
developed into men. Look at this, for instance.’ He 
held up Aziz’ pocket-case. “I am going through the 
contents. They are not edifying. Here is a letter from 
a friend who apparently keeps a brothel.” 

“T don’t want to hear his private letters.” 

“It'll have to be quoted in Court, as bearing on his 
morals. He was fixing up to see women at Calcutta.” 

ae@lrethat lidostoatlisdo.s 

McBryde stopped, naively puzzled. It was obvious to 
him that any two sahibs ought to pool all they knew 
about any Indian, and he could not think where the ob- 
jection came in. 

““T dare say you have the right to throw stones at a 
young man for doing that, but I haven’t. I did the 
same at his age.” 

So had the Superintendent of Police, but he consid- 
ered that the conversation had taken a turn that was 
undesirable. He did not like Fielding’s next remark 
either. 


170 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“ Miss Quested really cannot be seen? You do know 
that for a certainty?” 

“You have never explained to me what’s in your mind 
here. Why on earth do you want to see her?” 

“On the off chance of her recanting before you send 
in that report and he’s committed for trial, and the whole 
thing goes to blazes. Old man, don’t argue about this, 
but do of your goodness just ring up your wife or Miss 
Derek and enquire. It'll cost you nothing.” 

“It’s no use ringing up them,” he replied, stretching 
out for the telephone. “Callendar settles a question 
like that, of course. You haven’t grasped that she’s seri- 
ously ill.” 

“He’s sure to refuse, it’s all he exists for,’ said the 
other desperately. 

The expected answer came back: the Major would 
not hear of the patient being troubled. 

““T only wanted to ask her whether she is certain, dead 
certain, that it was Aziz who followed her into the cave.” 

“Possibly my wife might ask her that much.” 

“ But J wanted to ask her. I want someone who be- 
lieves in him to ask her.”’ 

“What difference does that make?” 

“‘ She is among people who disbelieve in Indians.” 

** Well, she tells her own story, doesn’t she? ” 

“T know, but she tells it to you.” 

McBryde raised his eyebrows, murmuring: “ A bit too 
finespun. Anyhow, Callendar won’t hear of you seeing 
her. I’m sorry to say he gave a bad account just now. 
He says that she is by no means out of danger.” 

They were silent. Another card was brought into the 
office—Hamidullah’s. The opposite army was gathering. 

“T must put this report through now, Fielding.” 

“T wish you wouldn't.” 

** How can I not?” 

“T feel that things are rather unsatisfactory as well as 


CAVES 171 


most disastrous. We are heading for a most awful 
smash. I can see your prisoner, I suppose.” 

He hesitated. “His own people seem in touch with 
him all right.” 

“Well, when he’s done with them.” 

“T wouldn’t keep you waiting; good heavens, you take 
precedence of any Indian visitor, of course. I meant 
what's the good. Why mix yourself up with pitch? ” 

“T say he’s innocent 

“Innocence or guilt, why mix yourself up? What's 
the good?” 

“Oh, good, good,” he cried, feeling that every earth 
was being stopped. “ One’s got to breathe occasionally, 
at least I have. I mayn’t see her, and now I mayn’t see 
him. I promised him to come up here with him to you, 
but Turton called me off before I could get two steps.” 

“Sort of all-white thing the Burra Sahib would do,” 
he muttered sentimentally. And trying not to sound 
patronizing, he stretched his hand over the table, and 
said: “ We shall all have to hang together, old man, I’m 
afraid. I’m your junior in years, I know, but very much 
your senior in service; you don’t happen to know this 
poisonous country as well as I do, and you must take it 
from me that the general situation is going to be nasty at 
Chandrapore during the next few weeks, very nasty in- 
deed.” 

“So I have just told you.” 

“ But at a time like this there’s no room for—well— 
personal views. The man who doesn’t toe the line is 
lost.” 

““T see what you mean.” 

“No, you don’t see entirely. He not only loses him- 
self, he weakens his friends. If you leave the line, you 
leave a gap in the line. These jackals ’—he pointed at 
the lawyers’ cards—* are looking with all their eyes for 


a gap.” 





172 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“Can I visit Aziz?” was his answer. 

“No.” Now that he knew of Turton’s attitude, the 
policeman had no doubts. ‘ You may see him on a mag- 
istrate’s order, but on my own responsibility I don’t feel 
justified. It might lead to more complications.” 

Fielding paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten 
years younger or ten years longer in India, he would 
have responded to McBryde’s appeal. The bit between 
his teeth, he then said, “To whom do I apply for an 
order ci 

“City Magistrate.” 

“That sounds comfortable! ” 

“Yes, one can’t very well worry poor Heaslop.” 

More “ evidence ’’ appeared at this moment—the table- 
drawer from Aziz’ bungalow, borne with triumph in a 
corporal’s arms. 

“Photographs of women. Ah!” 

“That's his wife,” said Fielding, wincing. 

“ How do you know that?” 

“ He told me.” 

McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started 
rummaging in the drawer. His face became inquisitive 
and slightly bestial. “ Wife indeed, I know those 
wives!”’ he was thinking. Aloud he said: “ Well, you 
must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the 
HeOLcpelpeusidiiemee 

As if his prayer had been heard, there was a sudden 
rackety-dacket on a temple bell. 


COHAPRPTERRAIX 


AMIDULLAH was the next stage. He was waiting 
outside the Superintendent’s office, and sprang up 
respectfully when he saw Fielding. To the Englishman’s 
passionate “It’s all a mistake,’ he answered, “‘ Ah, ah, 
has some evidence come? ” 
“Tt will come,” said Fielding, holding his hand. 


CAVES 173 


“ Ah, yes, Mr. Fielding; but when once an Indian has 
been arrested, we do not know where it will stop.” His 
manner was deferential. ‘‘ You are very good to greet 
me in this public fashion, I appreciate it; but, Mr. Field- 
ing, nothing convinces a magistrate except evidence. Did 
Mr. McBryde make any remark when my card came in? 
Do you think my application annoyed him, will prejudice 
him against my friend at all? If so, I will gladly retire.” 

““He’s not annoyed, and if he was, what does it 
TOL tae 

“Ah, it’s all very well for you to speak like that, but 
we have to live in this country.” 

The leading barrister of Chandrapore, with the digni- 
fied manner and Cambridge degree, had been rattled. He 
too loved Aziz, and knew he was calumniated; but faith 
did not rule his heart, and he prated of “ policy” and 
“evidence” in a way that saddened the Englishman. 
Fielding, too, had his anxieties—he didn’t like the field- 
glasses or the discrepancy over the guide—but he rele- 
gated them to the edge of his mind, and forbade them to 
infect its core. Aziz was innocent, and all action must 
be based on that, and the people who said he was guilty 
were wrong, and it was hopeless to try to propitiate 
them. At the moment when he was throwing in his lot 
with Indians, he realized the profundity of the gulf that 
divided him from them. They always do something dis- 
appointing. Aziz had tried to run away from the police, 
Mohammed Latif had not checked the pilfering. And 
now Hamidullah!—instead of raging and denouncing, he 
temporized. Are Indians cowards? No, but they are 
bad starters and occasionally jib. Fear is everywhere; 
the British Raj rests on it; the respect and courtesy Field- 
ing himself enjoyed were unconscious acts of propitia- 
tion. He told Hamidullah to cheer up, all would end 
well; and Hamidullah did cheer up, and became pugna- 
cious and sensible. McBryde’s remark, “If you leave 
the line, you leave a gap in the line,” was being illustrated. 


174 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“First and foremost, the question of bail . . .” 


Application must be made this afternoon. Fielding 
wanted to stand surety. Hamidullah thought the Nawab 
Bahadur should be approached. 

“Why drag in him, though? ”’ 

To drag in everyone was precisely the barrister’s aim. 
He then suggested that the lawyer in charge of the case 
would be a Hindu; the defence would then make a wider 
appeal. He mentioned one or two names—men from a 
distance who would not be intimidated by local condi- 
tions—and said he should prefer Amritrao, a Calcutta 
barrister, who had a high reputation professionally and 
personally, but who was notoriously anti-British. 

Fielding demurred; this seemed to him going to the 
other extreme. Aziz must be cleared, but with a mini- 
mum of racial hatred. Amritrao was loathed at the club. 
His retention would be regarded as a political challenge. 

“Oh no, we must hit with all our strength. When I 
saw my friend’s private papers carried in just now in the 
arms of a dirty policeman, I said to myself, ‘ Amritrao is 
the man to clear up this.’ ” 

There was a lugubrious pause. The temple bell con- 
tinued to jangle harshly. The interminable and dis- 
astrous day had scarcely reached its afternoon. Con- 
tinuing their work, the wheels of Dominion now pro- 
pelled a messenger on a horse from the Superintendent 
to the Magistrate with an official report of arrest. 
“Don’t complicate, let the cards play themselves,” en- 
treated Fielding, as he watched the man disappear into 
dust. “ We're bound to win, there’s nothing else we can 
do. She will never be able to substantiate the charge.” 

This comforted Hamidullah, who remarked with com- 
plete sincerity, “ At a crisis, the English are really un- 
equalled.” 

“Good-bye, then, my dear Hamidullah (we must drop 
the ‘ Mr.’ now). Give Aziz my love when you see him, 
and tell him to keep calm, calm, calm. I shall go back 


CAVES 175 


to the College now. If you want me, ring me up; if 
you don’t, don’t, for I shall be very busy.” 

“Good-bye, my dear Fielding, and you actually are on 
our side against your own people? ”’ 

meres aiuelinitely. 0 

He regretted taking sides. To slink through India un- 
labelled was his aim. Henceforward he would be called 
‘*‘anti-British,”’ “ seditious ”*—terms that bored him, and 
diminished his utility. He foresaw that besides being a 
tragedy, there would be a muddle; already he saw several 
tiresome little knots, and each time his eye returned to 
them, they were larger. Born in freedom, he was not 
afraid of the muddle, but he recognized its existence. 

This section of the day concluded in a queer vague 
talk with Professor Godbole. The interminable affair of 
the Russell’s Viper was again in question. Some weeks 
before, one of the masters at the College, an unpopular 
Parsi, had found a Russell’s Viper nosing round his class- 
room. Perhaps it had crawled in of itself, but perhaps 
it had not, and the staff still continued to interview their 
Principal about it, and to take up his time with their 
theories. The reptile is so poisonous that he did not like 
to cut them short, and this they knew. Thus when his 
mind was bursting with other troubles and he was debat- 
ing whether he should compose a letter of appeal to Miss 
Quested, he was obliged to listen to a speech which lacked 
both basis and conclusion, and floated through air. At the 
end of it Godbole said, “ May I now take my leave? ’— 
always an indication that he had not come to his point 
yet. “Now I take my leave, I must tell you how glad 
I am to hear that after all you succeeded in reaching the 
Marabar. I feared my unpunctuality had prevented you, 
but you went (a far pleasanter method) in Miss Derek’s 
car. I hope the expedition was a successful one.” 

“The news has not reached you yet, I can see.” 

“Oh yes.” 

“ No; there has been a terrible catastrophe about Aziz.” 


176 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“Oh yes. That is all round the College.” 

“Well, the expedition where that occurs can scarcely 
be called a successful one,” said Fielding, with an amazed 
Stale. 

“T cannot say. I was not present.” 

He stared again—a most useless operation, for no eye 
could see what lay at the bottom of the Brahman’s mind, 
and yet he had a mind and a heart too, and all his friends 
trusted him, without knowing why. “I am most fright- 
fully cut up,” he said. 

“So I saw at once on entering your office. I must not 
detain you, but I have a small private difficulty on which 
I want your help; I am leaving your service shortly, as 
you know.” 

Yes, alas!’’ 

“And am returning to my birthplace in Central India 
to take charge of education there. I want to start a High 
School there on sound English lines, that shall be as like 
Government College as possible.” 

“Well? ” he sighed, trying to take an interest. 

* At present there is only vernacular education at Mau. 
I shall feel it my duty to change all that. I shall advise 
His Highness to sanction at least a High School in the 
Capital, and if possible another in each pargana.”’ 

Fielding sunk his head on his arms; really, Indians 
were sometimes unbearable. 

“The point—the point on which I desire your help is 
this: what name should be given to the school? ” 

“A name? A name for a school?” he said, feeling 
sickish suddenly, as he had done in the waiting-room. 

“Yes, a name, a suitable title, by which it can be called, 
by which it may be generally known.” 

“ Really—I have no names for schools in my head. I 
can think of nothing but our poor Aziz. Have you 
grasped that at the present moment he is in prison?” 

“Oh yes. Oh no, I do not expect an answer to my 
question now. I only meant that when you are at leisure, 


CAVES 177 


you might think the matter over, and suggest two or three 
alternative titles for schools. | had thought of the ‘ Mr. 
Fielding High School,’ but failing that, the ‘ King-Em- 
peror George the Fifth.’ ” 

“ Godbole! ”’ 

The old fellow put his hands together, and looked sly 
and charming. 

“Ts Aziz innocent or guilty?” 

“That is for the Court to decide. The verdict will 
be in strict accordance with the evidence, I make no 
doubt.” 

“Yes, yes, but your personal opinion. Here’s a man 
we both like, generally esteemed; he lives here quietly 
doing his work. Well, what’s one to make of it? Would 
he or would he not do such a thing? ”’ 

““ Ah, that is rather a different question from your pre- 
vious one, and also more difficult: I mean difficult in our 
philosophy. Dr. Aziz is a most worthy young man, I 
have a great regard for him; but I think you are asking 
me whether the individual can commit good actions or 
evil actions, and that is rather difficult for us.” He spoke 
without emotion and in short tripping syllables. 

“TI ask you: did he do it or not? Is that plaine I 
know he didn’t, and from that I start. I mean to get at 
the true explanation in a couple of days. My last notion 
is that it’s the guide who went round with them. Malice 
on Miss Quested’s part—it couldn’t be that, though Hami- 
dullah thinks so. She has certainly had some appalling 
experience. But you tell me, oh no—because good and 
evil are the same.” 

“No, not exactly, please, according to our philosophy. 
Because nothing can be performed in isolation. All per- 
form a good action, when one is performed, and when 
an evil action is performed, all perform it. To illustrate 
my meaning, let me take the case in point as an example. 

“T am informed that an evil action was performed 
in the Marabar Hills, and that a highly esteemed English 


178 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


lady is now seriously ill in consequence. My answer to 
that is this: that action was performed by Dr. Aziz.” 
He stopped and sucked in his thin cheeks. “ It was per- 
formed by the guide.” He stopped again. “ It was per- 
formed by you.” Now he had an air of daring and of 
coyness. “It was performed by me.”’ He looked shyly 
down the sleeve of his own coat. ‘“ And by my students. 
It was even performed by the lady herself. When evil 
occurs, it expresses the whole of the universe. Similarly 
when good occurs.” 

“And similarly when suffering occurs, and so on and 
so forth, and everything is anything and nothing some- 
thing,’ he muttered in his irritation, for he needed the 
solid ground, 

“Excuse me, you are now again changing the basis of 
our discussion. We were discussing good and evil. Suf- 
fering is merely a matter for the individual. If a young 
lady has sunstroke, that is a matter of no significance 
to the universe. Oh no, not at all. Oh no, not the least. 
Yt is an isolated matter, it only concerns herself. If she 
thought her head did not ache, she would not be ill, 
and that would end it. But it is far otherwise in the 
case of good and evil. They are not what we think them, 
they are what they are, and each of us has contributed to 
both.” 

“You're preaching that evil and good are the same.” 

“Oh no, excuse me once again. Good and evil are 
different, as their names imply. But, in my own humble 
opinion, they are both of them aspects of my Lord. He 
is present in the one, absent in the other, and the differ- 
ence between presence and absence is great, as great as 
my feeble mind can grasp. Yet absence implies presence, 
absence is not non-existence, and we are therefore entitled 
to repeat, ‘ Come, come, come, come.’’’ And in the same 
breath, as if to cancel any beauty his words might have 
contained, he added, “‘ But did you have time to visit 
any of the interesting Marabar antiquities?” 


CAVES 179 


Fielding was silent, trying to meditate and rest his 
brain. 

“Did you not even see the tank by the usual camping 
ground?” he nagged. 

“Yes, yes,” he answered distractedly, wandering over 
half a dozen things at once. 

“That is good, then you saw the Tank of the Dagger.” 
And he related a legend which might have been acceptable 
if he had told it at the tea-party a fortnight ago. It 
concerned a Hindu Rajah who had slain his own sister’s 
son, and the dagger with which he performed the deed 
remained clamped to his hand until in the course of years 
he came to the Marabar Hills, where he was thirsty and 
wanted to drink but saw a thirsty cow and ordered the 
water to be offered to her first, which, when done, 
“ dagger fell from his hand, and to commemorate miracle 
he built Tank.’’ Professor Godbole’s conversations fre- 
quently culminated in a cow. Fielding received this one 
in gloomy silence. 

In the afternoon he obtained a permit and saw Aziz, 
but found him unapproachable through misery. “ You 
deserted me,” was the only coherent remark. He went 
away to write his letter to Miss Quested. Even if it 
reached her, it would do no good, and probably the 
McBrydes would withhold it. Miss Quested did pull him 
up short. She was such a dry, sensible girl, and quite 
without malice: the last person in Chandrapore wrong- 
fully to accuse an Indian. 


CHAPTER XX 


/s\ aoe eis Miss Quested had not made herself 
popular with the English, she brought out all that 
was fine in their character. For a few hours an exalted 
emotion gushed forth, which the women felt even more 
keenly than the men, if not for so long. ‘‘ What can we 


180 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


do for our sister? ’’ was the only thought of Mesdames 
Callendar and Lesley, as they drove through the pelting 
heat to enquire. Mrs. Turton was the only visitor ad- 
mitted to the sick-room. She came out ennobled by an 
unselfish sorrow. ‘“ She is my own darling girl,’ were 
the words she spoke, and then, remembering that she had 
called her “not pukka” and resented her engagement 
to young Heaslop, she began to cry. No one had ever 
seen the Collector’s wife cry. Capable of tears—yes, but 
always reserving them for some adequate occasion, and 
now it had come. Ah, why had they not all been kinder 
to the stranger, more patient, given her not only hospi- 
tality but their hearts? The tender core of the heart 
that is so seldom used—they employed it for a little, 
under the stimulus of remorse. If all is over (as Major 
Callendar implied), well, all is over, and nothing can be 
done, but they retained some responsibility in her griev- 
ous wrong that they couldn’t define. If she wasn’t one 
of them, they ought to have made her one, and they could 
never do that now, she had passed beyond their invita- 
tion. ‘Why don’t one think more of other people?” 
sighed pleasure-loving Miss Derek. These regrets only 
lasted in their pure form for a few hours. Before sun- 
set, other considerations adulterated them, and the sense 
of guilt (so strangely connected with our first sight of 
any suffering) had begun to wear away. 

People drove into the club with studious calm—the jog- 
trot of country gentlefolk between green hedgerows, for 
the natives must not suspect that they were agitated. 
They exchanged the usual drinks, but everything tasted 
different, and then they looked out at the palisade of 
cactuses stabbing the purple throat of the sky; they real- 
ized that they were thousands of miles from any scenery 
that they understood. The club was fuller than usual, 
and several parents had brought their children into the 
rooms reserved for adults, which gave the air of the Resi- 
dency at Lucknow. One young mother—a brainless but 


CAVES 181 


most beautiful girl—sat on a low ottoman in the smoking- 
room with her baby in her arms; her husband was away 
in the district, and she dared not return to her bungalow 
in case the “niggers attacked.” The wife of a small 
railway official, she was generally snubbed; but this eve- 
ning, with her abundant figure and masses of corn-gold 
hair, she symbolized all that is worth fighting and dying 
for; more permanent a symbol, perhaps, than poor Adela. 
* Don’t worry, Mrs. Blakiston, those drums are only 
Mohurram,” the men would tell her. ‘‘ Then they’ve 
started,’ she moaned, clasping the infant and rather wish- 
ing he would not blow bubbles down his chin at such a 
moment as this. “ No, of course not, and anyhow, they’re 
not coming to the club.” “ And they’re not coming to the 
Burra Sahib’s bungalow either, my dear, and that’s where 
you and your baby’ll sleep to-night,’ answered Mrs. 
Turton, towering by her side like Pallas Athene, and 
determining in the future not to be such a snob. 

The Collector clapped his hands for silence. He was 
much calmer than when he had flown out at Fielding. 
He was indeed always calmer when he addressed several 
people than in a téte-d-téte. “I want to talk specially to 
the ladies,” he said. “ Not the least cause for alarm. 
Keep cool, keep cool. Don’t go out more than you can 
help, don’t go into the city, don’t talk before your serv- 
ants, That’s all.” 

“Harry, is there any news from the city?” asked his 
wife, standing at some distance from him, and also as- 
suming her public safety voice. The rest were silent 
during the august colloquy. 

“Everything absolutely normal.” 

“T had gathered as much. Those drums are merely 
Mohurram, of course.” 

“Merely the preparation for it—the Procession is not 
till next week.” 

“ Quite so, not till Monday.” 


182 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


““Mr. McBryde’s down there disguised as a Holy 
Man,” said Mrs. Callendar. 
“That’s exactly the sort of thing that must not be 


said,” he remarked, pointing at her. ‘‘ Mrs. Callendar, 
be more careful than that, please, in these times.” 
oT So well; aloo) She mwas: not onmendedsgis 


severity made her feel safe. 

““Any more questions? Necessary questions.” 

“Is the—where is he Mrs. Lesley quavered. 

“Jail. Bail has been refused.” 

Fielding spoke next. He wanted to know whether 
there was an official bulletin about Miss Quested’s health, 
or whether the grave reports were due to gossip. His 
question produced a bad effect, partly because he had 
pronounced her name; she, like Aziz, was always referred 
to by a periphrasis. 

“T hope Callendar may be able to let us know how 
things are going before long.” 

“T fail to see how that last question can be termed a 
necessary question,” said Mrs. Turton. 

“ Will all ladies leave the smoking-room now, please? ” 
he cried, clapping his hands again. ‘“ And remember what 
I have said. We look to you to help us through a diff- 
cult time, and you can help us by behaving as if every- 
thing is normal. Itis all lask. CanJ rely on you? ” 

~ Yes, indeed, Burra’ Sahib,” they chorused outer 
peaked, anxious faces. They moved out, subdued yet 
elated, Mrs. Blakiston in their midst like a sacred flame. 
His simple words had reminded them that they were an 
outpost of Empire. By the side of their compassionate 
love for Adela another sentiment sprang up which was 
to strangle it in the long run. Its first signs were prosaic 
and small. Mrs. Turton made her loud, hard jokes at 
bridge, Mrs. Lesley began to knit a comforter. 

When the smoking-room was clear, the Collector sat 
on the edge of a table, so that he could dominate without 
formality. His mind whirled with contradictory im- 





CAVES 183 


pulses. He wanted to avenge Miss Quested and punish 
Fielding, while remaining scrupulously fair. He wanted 
to flog every native that he saw, but to do nothing that 
would lead to a riot or to the necessity for military inter- 
vention. The dread of having to call in the troops was 
vivid to him; soldiers put one thing straight, but leave a 
dozen others crooked, and they love to humiliate the 
civilian administration. One soldier was in the room this 
evening—a stray subaltern from a Gurkha regiment; he 
was a little drunk, and regarded his presence as providen- 
tial. The Collector sighed. There seemed nothing for it 
but the old weary business of compromise and modera- 
tion. He longed for the good old days when an Eng- 
lishman could satisfy his own honour and no questions 
asked afterwards. Poor young Heaslop had taken a step 
in this direction, by refusing bail, but the Collector 
couldn’t feel this was wise of poor young Heaslop. Not 
only would the Nawab Bahadur and others be angry, 
but the Government of India itself also watches—and be- 
hind it is that caucus of cranks and cravens, the British 
Parliament. He had constantly to remind himself that, 
in the eyes of the law, Aziz was not yet guilty, and the 
effort fatigued him. 

The others, less responsible, could behave naturally. | 
They had started speaking of ‘ women and children ”’— 
that phrase that exempts the male from sanity when it 


has been repeated a few times. Each felt that all he | 


loved best in the world was at stake, demanded revenge, 
and was filled with a not unpleasing glow, in which the 
chilly and half-known features of Miss Quested vanished, 
and were replaced by all that is sweetest and warmest 
in the private life. “ But it’s the women and children,” 
they repeated, and the Collector knew he ought to stop 
them intoxicating themselves, but he hadn’t the heart. 
“They ought to be compelled to give hostages,” ete. 
Many of the said women and children were leaving for 
the Hill Station in a few days, and the suggestion was 


184 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


made that they should be packed off at once in a special 
train. 

“And a jolly suggestion,” the subaltern cried. ‘“ The 
army’s got to come in sooner or later. (A special train 
was in his mind inseparable from troops.) This would 
never have happened if Barabas Hill was under military 
control. Station a bunch of Gurkhas at the entrance of 
the cave was all that was wanted.” 

“Mrs. Blakiston was saying if only there were a few 
Tommies,’ remarked someone. 

“English no good,” he cried, getting his loyalties 
mixed. ‘“ Native troops for this country. Give me the 
sporting type of native, give me Gurkhas, give me Raj- 
puts, give me Jats, give me the Punjabi, give me Sikhs, 
give me Marathas, Bhils, Afridis and Pathans, and really 
if it comes to that, I don’t mind if you give me the 
scums of the bazaars. Properly led, mind. Id lead them 
anywhere 

The Collector nodded at him pleasantly, and said to 
his own people: “Don’t start carrying arms about. I 
want everything to go on precisely as usual, until there’s 
cause for the contrary. Get the womenfolk off to the 
hills, but do it quietly, and for Heaven’s sake no more 
talk of special trains. Never mind what you think or 
feel. Possibly I have feelings too. One isolated Indian 
has attempted—is charged with an attempted crime.” He 
flipped his forehead hard with his finger-nail, and they all 
realized that he felt as deeply as they did, and they loved 
him, and determined not to increase his difficulties. ‘‘ Act 
upon that fact until there are more facts,” he concluded. 
“Assume every Indian is an angel.” 

They wmutrmured, ~ Rightiyou are, Burta Sahib 
Angels@emer eticactly, .’ From the subaltern: 
“Exactly what I said. The native’s all right if you get 
him alone. Lesley! Lesley! You remember the one I 
had a knock with on your Maidan last month. Well, he 
was all right. Any native who plays polio is all right. 





CAVES 185 


What you’ve got to stamp on is these educated classes, 
and, mind, I do know what I’m talking about this time.” 

The smoking-room door opened, and let in a feminine 
buzz. Mrs. Turton called out, “‘ She’s better,” and from 
both sections of the community a sigh of joy and relief 
rose. The Civil Surgeon, who had brought the good 
news, came in. His cumbrous, pasty face looked ill- 
tempered. He surveyed the company, saw Fielding 
crouched below him on an ottoman, and said, ‘‘ H’m!” 
Everyone began pressing him for details. ‘‘ No one’s 
out of danger in this country as long as they have a tem- 
perature,” was his answer. He appeared to resent his 
patient’s recovery, and no one who knew the old Major 
and his ways was surprised at this. 

“ Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it.” 

“Take me some time to do that.” 

““How’s the old lady? ”’ 

ie heniperature:, 

“My wife heard she was sinking.” 

‘“So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can’t 
be plagued with questions, Lesley.” 

“Sorry, old man.” 

‘““ Heaslop’s just behind me.” 

At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression 
was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a 
victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the 
recipient of all the evil intended against them by the 
country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib’s 
cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing 
for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness 
and attending the course of the law. 

‘““T wish to God I hadn’t given my jewel of an assistant 
leave. I’ld cut my tongue out first. To feel I’m re- 
sponsible, that’s what hits me. To refuse, and then give 
in under pressure. That is what I did, my sons, that 1s 
what I did.” 

Fielding took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it 


186 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


thoughtfully. Thinking him afraid, the other went on: 
“T understood an Englishman was to accompany the 
expedition. That is why I gave in.” 

“No one blames you, my dear Callendar,” said the 
Collector, looking down. “ We are all to blame in the 
sense that we ought to have seen the expedition was 
insufficiently guaranteed, and stopped it. I knew about 
it myself; we lent our car this morning to take the 
ladies to the station. We are all implicated in that sense, 
but not an atom of blame attaches to you personally.” 

“T don’t feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is 
a very awful thing, and I’ve no use for the man who 
shirks it.’ His eyes were directed on Fielding. Those 
who knew that Fielding had undertaken to accompany 
and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was 
what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up 
with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Col- 
lector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official in him 
still hoped that Fielding would toe the line. The con- 
versation turned to women and children again, and under 
its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and 
set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to” be 
more drunk than he really was, he began to make semi- 
offensive remarks. 

“Heard about Miss Quested’s servant?” reinforced 
the Major. 

“No, what about him? ” 

“Heaslop warned Miss Quested’s servant last night 
never to lose sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and 
managed to leave him behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has 
just found out the whole story, with names and sums—a 
well-known pimp to those people gave the money, Mo- 
hammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. 
What about the Englishman—our friend here? How did 
they get rid of him? Money again.” 

Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and 
exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity. 


CAVES 187 


“Oh, I’m being misunderstood, apologies,” said the 
Major offensively. ‘I didn’t mean they bribed Mr. 
Fielding.” 

“Then what do you mean?” 

“They paid the other Indian to make you late—God- 
bole. He was saying his prayers. I know those 
prayers!” 

“That’s ridiculous...” He sat down again, trem- 
bling with rage; person after person was being dragged 
into the mud. 

Having shot this bolt, the Major prepared the next. 
*“Heaslop also found out something from his mother. 
Aziz paid a herd of natives to suffocate her in a cave. 
That was the end of her, or would have been only she 
got out. Nicely planned, wasn’t it? Neat. Then he 
could go on with the girl. He and she and a guide, pro- 
vided by the same Mohammed Latif. Guide now can’t 
betounds) Pretty. 71) His voicebrokejintovairoar. “It's 
not the time for sitting down. It’s the time for action. 
Call in the troops and clear the bazaars.” 

The Major’s outbursts were always discounted, but he 
made everyone uneasy on this occasion. The crime was 
even worse than they had supposed—the unspeakable 
limit of cynicism, untouched since 1857. Fielding forgot 
his anger on poor old Godbole’s behalf, and became 
thoughtful; the evil was propagating in every direction, 
it seemed to have an existence of its own, apart from 
anything that was done or said by individuals, and he 
understood better why both Aziz and Hamidullah had 
been inclined to lie down and die. Huis adversary saw 
that he was in trouble, and now ventured to say, “ I sup- 
pose nothing that’s said inside the club will go outside 
the club?” winking the while at Lesley. 

“ Why should it?” responded Lesley. 

“Oh, nothing. I only heard a rumour that a certain 
member here present has been seeing the prisoner this 


9) 


188 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


afternoon. You can’t run with the hare and hunt with 
the hounds, at least not in this country.” 

‘Does anyone here present want to?” 

Fielding was determined not to be drawn again. He 
had something to say, but it should be at his own mo- 
ment. The attack failed to mature, because the Collector 
did not support it. Attention shifted from him for a 
time. Then the buzz of women broke out again. The 
door had been opened by Ronny. 

The young man looked exhausted and tragic, also 
gentler than usual. He always showed deference to his 
superiors, but now it came straight from his heart. He 
seemed to appeal for their protection in the insult that 
had befallen him, and they, in instinctive homage, rose to 
their feet. But every human act in the East is tainted 
with officialism, and while honouring him they condemned 
Aziz and India. Fielding realized this, and he remained 
seated. It was an ungracious, a caddish thing to do, per- 
haps an unsound thing to do, but he felt he had been 
passive long enough, and that he might be drawn into the 
wrong current if he did not make a stand. Ronny, who 
had not seen him, said in husky tones, “ Oh, please— 
please all sit down, I only want to listen what has been 
decided.”’ 

“ Heaslop, I’m telling them I’m against any show of 
force,’ said the Collector apologetically. ‘I don’t know 
whether you will feel as I do, but that is how I am sit- 
uated. When the verdict is obtained, it will be another 
Matte te 

“You are sure to know best; I have no experience, 
Burra Sahib.” 

“How is your mother, old boy?” 

“ Better, thank you. I wish everyone would sit down.” 

*““ Some have never got up,” the young soldier said. 

* And the Major brings us an excellent report of Miss 
Quested,” Turton went on. 

Tudo, ado,wiimasatisned: © 


CAVES 189 


“You thought badly of her earlier, did you not, 
Major? That’s why I refused bail.” 

Callendar laughed with friendly inwardness, and said, 
“ Heaslop, Heaslop, next time bail’s wanted, ring up the 
old doctor before giving it; his shoulders are broad, and, 
speaking in the strictest confidence, don’t take the old 
doctor’s opinion too seriously. He’s a blithering idiot, 
we can always leave it at that, but he'll do the little he 
can towards keeping in quod the ae ea brOoker ork 
with affected politeness. ‘Oh, but he has one of his 
friends here.” 

The subaltern called, “ Stand up, you swine.” 

“Mr. Fielding, what has prevented you from stand- 
ing up?” said the Collector, entering the fray at last. It 
was the attack for which Fielding had waited, and to 
which he must reply. 

‘““ May I make a statement, sir?”’ 

eettaiilyes 

Seasoned and self-contained, devoid of the fervours of 
nationality or youth, the schoolmaster did what was for 
him a comparatively easy thing. He stood up and said, 
*“T believe Dr. Aziz to be innocent.” 

“You have a right to hold that opinion if you choose, 
but pray is that any reason why you should insult Mr. 
Heaslop? ” 

“May I conclude my statement? ” 

ea Wer tainivac 

“Tam waiting for the verdict of the courts. If he is 
evilty I resign from my service, and leave India. | 
resign from the club now.” 

“Hear, hear!” said voices, not entirely hostile, for 
they liked the fellow for speaking out. 

“You have not answered my question. Why did you 
not stand when Mr. Heaslop entered? ”’ 

“With all deference, sir, I am not here to answer 
questions, but to make a personal statement, and I have 
concluded it.” 





190 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“May I ask whether you have taken over charge of 
this District?” 

Fielding moved towards the door. 

“One moment, Mr. Fielding. You are not to go yet, 
please. Before you leave the club, from which you do 
very well to resign, you will express some detestation of 
the crime, and you will apologize to Mr. Heaslop.” 

“Are you speaking to me officially, sir?” 

The Collector, who never spoke otherwise, was so in- 
furiated that he lost his head. He cried, “ Leave this 
room at once, and I deeply regret that I demeaned myself 
to meet you at the station. You have sunk to the level 
of your associates; you are weak, weak, that is what is 
wrong with you ay 

“IT want to leave the room, but cannot while this 
gentleman prevents me,” said Fielding lightly; the subal- 
tern had got across his path. 

“Let him go,” said Ronny, almost in tears. 

It was the only appeal that could have saved the situa- 
tion. Whatever Heaslop wished must be done. There 
was a slight scuffle at the door, from which Fielding was 
propelled, a little more quickly than is natural, into the 
room where the ladies were playing cards. ‘ Fancy if 
I'd fallen or got angry,” he thought. Of course he was 
a little angry. His peers had never offered him violence 
or called him weak before, besides Heaslop had heaped 
coals of fire on his head. He wished he had not picked 
the quarrel over poor suffering Heaslop, when there were 
cleaner issues at hand. 

However, there it was, done, muddled through, and to 
cool himself and regain mental balance he went on to the 
upper verandah for a moment, where the first object he 
saw was the Marabar Hills. At this distance and hour 
they leapt into beauty; they were Monsalvat, Walhalla, 
the towers of a cathedral, peopled with saints and heroes, 
and covered with flowers. What miscreant lurked in 
them, presently to be detected by the activities of the 





CAVES I9l 


law? Who was the guide, and had he been found yet? 
What was the “echo” of which the girl complained? 
He did not know, but presently he would know. Great 
is information, and she shall prevail. It was the last mo- 
ment of the light, and as he gazed at the Marabar Hills 
they seemed to move graciously towards him like a queen, 
and their charm became the sky’s. At the moment they 
vanished they were everywhere, the cool benediction of 
the night descended, the stars sparkled, and the whole 
universe was a hill. Lovely, exquisite moment—but pass- 
ing the Englishman with averted face and on swift wings. 
He experienced nothing himself; it was as if someone had 
told him there was such a moment, and he was obliged 
to believe. And he felt dubious and discontented sud- 
denly, and wondered whether he was really and truly 
successful as a human being, After forty years’ experi- 
ence, he had learnt to manage his life and make the best 
of it on advanced European lines, had developed his per- 
sonality, explored his limitations, controlled his passions 
—and he had done it all without becoming either pedantic 
or worldly. A creditable achievement, but as the moment 
passed, he felt he ought to have been working at some- 
thing else the whole time,—he didn’t know at what, never 
would know, never could know, and that was why he felt 
sad. 


CHARTER CAI 


ISMISSING his regrets, as inappropriate to the 
matter in hand, he accomplished the last section of 

the day by riding off to his new allies. He was glad that 
he had broken with the club, for he would have picked 
up scraps of gossip there, and reported them down in the 
city, and he was glad to be denied this opportunity. He 
would miss his billiards, and occasional tennis, and cracks 
with McBryde, but really that was all, so light did he 


192 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


travel. At the entrance of the bazaars, a tiger made his 
horse shy—a youth dressed up as a tiger, the body striped 
brown and yellow, a mask over the face. Mohurram was 
working up. The city beat a good many drums, but 
seemed good-tempered. He was invited to inspect a small 
tazia—a flimsy and frivolous erection, more like a crino- 
line than the tomb of the grandson of the Prophet, done 
to death at Kerbela. Excited children were pasting col- 
oured paper over its ribs. The rest of the evening he 
spent with the Nawab Bahadur, Hamidullah, Mahmoud 
Ali, and others of the confederacy. The campaign was 
also working up. A telegram had been sent to the 
famous Amritrao, and his acceptance received. Applica- 
tion for bail was to be renewed—it could not well be 
withheld now that Miss Quested was out of danger. The 
conference was serious and sensible, but marred by a 
group of itinerant musicians, who were allowed to play 
in the compound. Each held a large earthenware jar, con- 
taining pebbles, and jerked it up and down in time to a 
doleful chant. Distracted by the noise, he suggested their 
dismissal, but the Nawab Bahadur vetoed it; he said that 
musicians, who had walked many miles, might bring good 
luck. 

Late at night, he had an inclination to tell Professor 
Godbole of the tactical and moral error he had made in 
being rude to Heaslop, and to hear what he would say. 
But the old fellow had gone to bed and slipped off un- 
molested to his new job in a day or two: he always did 
possess the knack of slipping off. 


CHAPTER XXII 


VAN lay for several days in the McBrydes’ bunga- 
low. She had been touched by the sun, also hundreds 
of cactus spines had to be picked out of her flesh. Hour 
after hour Miss Derek and Mrs. McBryde examined her 


CAVES 193 


through magnifying glasses, always coming on fresh 
colonies, tiny hairs that might snap off and be drawn into 
the blood if they were neglected. She lay passive be- 
neath their fingers, which developed the shock that had 
begun in the cave. Hitherto she had not much minded 
whether she was touched or not: her senses were abnor- 
mally inert and the only contact she anticipated was that 
of mind. Everything now was transferred to the surface 
of her body, which began to avenge itself, and feed un- 
healthily. People seemed very much alike, except that 
some would come close while others kept away. “In 
space things touch, in time things part,’ she repeated to 
herself while the thorns were being extracted—her brain 
so weak that she could not decide whether the phrase was 
a philosophy or a pun. 

They were kind to her, indeed over-kind, the men too 
respectful, the women too sympathetic; whereas Mrs. 
Moore, the only visitor she wanted, kept away. No one 
understood her trouble, or knew why she vibrated between 
hard commonsense and hysteria. She would begin a 
speech as if nothing particular had happened. “I went 
into this detestable cave,’’ she would say dryly, “and I 
remember scratching the wall with my finger-nail, to start 
the usual echo, and then as I was saying there was this 
shadow, or sort of shadow, down the entrance tunnel, 
bottling me up. It seemed like an age, but I suppose the 
whole thing can’t have lasted thirty seconds really. I hit 
at him with the glasses, he pulled me round the cave 
by the strap, it broke, I escaped, that’s all. He never 
actually touched me once. It all seems such nonsense.” 
Then her eyes would fill with tears. “ Naturally I’m 
upset, but I shall get over it.”” And then she would break 
down entirely, and the women would feel she was one 
of themselves and cry too, and men in the next room 
murmur: “‘ Good God, good God!” No one realized that 
she thought tears vile, a degradation more subtle than 
anything endured in the Marabar, a negation of her ad- 


194. A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


vanced outlook and the natural honesty of her mind. 
Adela was always trying to “think the incident out,” 
always reminding herself that no harm had been done. 
There was ‘the shock,” but what is that? For a time 
her own logic would convince her, then she would hear 
the echo again, weep, declare she was unworthy of Ronny, 
and hope her assailant would get the maximum penalty. 
After one of these bouts, she longed to go out into the 
bazaars and ask pardon from everyone she met, for she 
felt in some vague way that she was leaving the world 
worse than she found it. She felt that it was her crime, 
until the intellect, reawakening, pointed out to her that 
she was inaccurate here, and set her again upon her sterile 
round. 

If only she could have seen Mrs. Moore! The old lady 
had not been well either, and was disinclined to come out, 
Ronny reported. And consequently the echo flourished, 
raging up and down like a nerve in the faculty of her 
hearing, and the noise in the cave, so unimportant intel- 
lectually, was prolonged over the surface of her life. She 
had struck the polished wall—for no reason—and before 
the comment had died away, he followed her, and the 
climax was the falling of her field-glasses. The sound 
had spouted after her when she escaped, and was going 
on still like a river that gradually floods the plain. Only 
Mrs. Moore could drive it back to its source and seal the 
broken reservoir. Evil was loose . .. she could even 
hear it entering the lives of others. . . . And Adela spent 
days in this atmosphere of grief and depression. Her 
friends kept up their spirits by demanding holocausts of 
natives, but she was too worried and weak to do that. 

When the cactus thorns had all been extracted, and her 
temperature fallen to normal, Ronny came to fetch her 
away. He was worn with indignation and suffering, and 
she wished she could comfort him; but intimacy seemed 
to caricature itself, and the more they spoke the more 
wretched and self-conscious they became. Practical talk 


CAVES 195 


was the least painful, and he and McBryde now told her 
one or two things which they had concealed from her 
during the crisis, by the doctor’s orders. She learnt for 
the first time of the Mohurram troubles. There had 
nearly been a riot. The last day of the festival, the great 
procession left its official route, and tried to enter the 
civil station, and a telephone had been cut because it 
interrupted the advance of one of the larger paper towers. 
McBryde and his police had pulled the thing straight—a 
fine piece of work. They passed on to another and very 
painful subject: the trial. She would have to appear in 
court, identify the prisoner, and submit to cross-examina- 
tion by an Indian lawyer. 

“Can Mrs. Moore be with me?” was all she said. 

“Certainly, and I shall be there myself,” Ronny re- 
plied. ‘‘ The case won’t come before me; they’ve ob- 
jected to me on personal grounds. It will be at Chandra- 
pore—we thought at one time it would be transferred 
elsewhere.” 

‘““Miss Quested realizes what all that means, though,” 
said McBryde sadly. “The case will come before 
Das.” 

Das was Ronny’s assistant—own brother to the Mrs. 
Bhattacharya whose carriage had played them false last 
month. He was courteous and intelligent, and with the 
evidence before him could only come to one conclusion; 
but that he should be judge over an English girl had con- 
vulsed the station with wrath, and some of the women 
had sent a telegram about it to Lady Mellanby, the wife 
of the Lieutenant-Governor. 

““T must come before someone.” 

“ That’s—that’s the way to face it. You have the 
pluck, Miss Quested.” He grew very bitter over the ar- 
rangements, and called them “ the fruits of democracy.” 
In the old days an Englishwoman would not have had 
to appear, nor would any Indian have dared to discuss 
her private affairs. She would have made her deposition, 


196 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


and judgment would have followed. He apologized to 
her for the condition of the country, with the result that 
she gave one of her sudden little shoots of tears. Ronny 
wandered miserably about the room while she cried, tread- 
ing upon the flowers of the Kashmir carpet that so in- 
evitably covered it or drumming on the brass Benares 
bowls. “Ido this less every day, I shall soon be quite 
well,” she said, blowing her nose and feeling hideous. 
“What I need is something to do. That is why I keep 
on with this ridiculous crying.” 

“It’s not ridiculous, we think you wonderful,” said the 
policeman very sincerely. ‘‘It only bothers us that we 
can’t help you more. Your stopping here—at such a 
time—is the greatest honour this house He too 
was overcome with emotion. “ By the way, a letter came 
here for you while you were ill,’ he continued. “I 
opened it, which is a strange confession to make. Will 
you forgive me? The circumstances are peculiar. It is 
from Fielding.” 

“Why should he write to me? ” 

“A most lamentable thing has happened. The defence 
got hold of him.” 

“ He’s a crank, a crank,” said Ronny lightly. 

“That’s your way of putting it, but a man can be a 
crank without being a cad. Miss Quested had better 
know how he behaved to you. If you don’t tell her, 
somebody else will.’ He told her. “‘ He is now the 
mainstay of the defence, I needn’t add. He is the one 
righteous Englishman in a horde of tyrants. He receives 
deputations from the bazaar, and they all chew betel nut 
and swear one another’s hands with scent. It is not easy 
to enter into the mind of such a man. His students are 
on strike—out of enthusiasm for him they won’t learn 
their lessons. If it weren’t for Fielding one would never 
have had the Mohurram trouble. He has done a very 
grave disservice to the whole community. The letter lay 
here a day or two, waiting till you were well enough, 





CAVES 197 


then the situation got so grave that I decided to open it 
in case it was useful to us.” 

pelSeits eeshe Said. teebly. 

“Not at all. He only has the impertinence to suggest 
you have made a mistake.”’ 

“Would that I had!” She glanced through the letter, 
which was careful and formal in its wording. ‘“ Dr. 
Aziz 1s innocent,’ she read. Then her voice began to 
tremble again. “But think of his behaviour to you, 
Ronny. When you had already to bear so much for my 
sake! It was shocking of him. My dear, how can I 
repay you? How can one repay when one has nothing 
to give? What is the use of personal relationships when 
everyone brings less and less to them? I feel we ought 
all to go back into the desert for centuries and try and 
get good. I want to begin at the beginning. All the 
things I thought I’d learnt are just a hindrance, they’re 
not knowledge at all. I’m not fit for personal relation- 
ships. Well, let’s go, let’s go. Of course Mr. Fielding’s 
letter doesn’t count; he can think and write what he 
likes, only he shouldn’t have been rude to you when you 
Hacesomnuchitospears. Uhatsiwhat matters... L.dont 
want your arm, I’m a magnificent walker, so don’t touch 
me, please.” 

Mrs. McBryde wished her an affectionate good-bye—a 
woman with whom she had nothing in common and 
whose intimacy oppressed her. They would have to meet 
now, year after year, until one of their husbands was 
superannuated. Truly Anglo-India had caught her with 
a vengeance and perhaps it served her right for having 
tried to take up a line of her own. Humbled yet repelled, 
she gave thanks. ‘Oh, we must help one another, we 
must take the rough with the smooth,” said Mrs. 
McBryde. Miss Derek was there too, still making jokes 
about her comic Maharajah and Rani. Required as a 
witness at the trial, she had refused to send back the 
Mudkul car; they would be frightfully sick. Both Mrs. 


198 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


McBryde and Miss Derek kissed her, and called her by 
her Christian name. Then Ronny drove her back. It was 
early in the morning, for the day, as the hot weather ad- 
vanced, swelled like a monster at both ends, and left less 
and less room for the movements of mortals, 

As they neared his bungalow, he said: “‘ Mother’s look- 
ing forward to seeing you, but of course she’s old, one 
mustn’t forget that. Old people never take things as one 
expects, in my opinion.” He seemed warning her against 
approaching disappointment, but she took no notice. Her 
friendship with Mrs. Moore was so deep and real that 
she felt sure it would last, whatever else happened. 
“What can I do to make things easier for you? It’s you 
who matter,” she sighed. 

“Dear old girl to say so.” 

“Dear old boy.” Then she cried: “‘ Ronny, she isn’t 
ill too?” 

He reassured her; Major Callender was not dissatis- 
fied. 

“But you'll find her—irritable. We are an irritable 
family. Well, you'll see for yourself. No doubt my 
own nerves are out of order, and I expected more from 
mother when I came in from the office than she felt able 
to give. She is sure to make a special effort for you; 
still, I don’t want your home-coming to be a disappoint- 
ing one. Don’t expect too much.’’’ 

The house came in sight. It was a replica of the 
bungalow she had left. Puffy, red, and curiously severe, 
Mrs. Moore was revealed upon a’sofa. She didn’t get 
up when they entered, and the surprise of this roused 
Adela from her own troubles. 

“Here you are both back,” was the only greeting. 

Adela sat down and took her hand. It withdrew, and 
she felt that just as others repelled her, so did she repel 
Mrs. Moore. 

“ Are you all right? You appeared all right when J 
left,” said Ronny, trying not to speak crossly, but he 


CAVES 199 


had instructed her to give the girl a pleasant welcome, and 
he could not but feel annoyed. 

“T am all right,” she said heavily. ‘“‘ As a matter of 
fact I have been looking at my return ticket. It is inter- 
changeable, so I have‘a much larger choice of boats home 
than I thought.” 

“We can go into that later, can’t we?” 

“Ralph and Stella may be wanting to know when I 
arrive.” 

“There is plenty of time for all such plans. How do 
you think our Adela looks? ”’ 

“T am counting on you to help me through; it is 
such a blessing to be with you again, everyone else is a 
stranger,’’.said the girl rapidly. 

But Mrs. Moore showed no inclination to be helpful. 
A sort of resentment emanated from her. She seemed to 
say: “Am I to be bothered for ever? ”» Her Christian 
tenderness had gone, or had developed. into a hardness, 
a just irritation against the human race; she had taken 
no interest at the .arrest, asked scarcely any questions, 
and had refused to leave her bed on the awful last night 
of Mohurram, when an attack was expected on the 
bungalow. 

“T know it’s all nothing; I must be sensible, I do 
try’. Adela continued, working again towards tears. 
“T shouldn’t mind if it had happened anywhere else; at 
least I really don’t know where it did happen.” 

Ronny supposed that he understood what she meant: 
she could not identify or describe the particular cave, 
indeed almost refused to have her mind cleared up about 
it, and it was recognized that the defence would try to 
make capital out of this during the trial. He reassured 
her: the Marabar caves were notoriously like one another ; 
indeed, in the future they were to be numbered in 
sequence with white paint. 

“Yes, I mean that, at least not exactly; but there is 
this echo that I keep on hearing.” 





200 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“Oh, what of the echo?” asked Mrs. Moore, paying 
attention to her for the first time. 

veleCan tecet ricco tmiss 

“T don’t suppose you ever will.” 

Ronny had emphasized to his mother that Adela would 
arrive in a morbid state, yet she was being positively 
malicious. 

‘““ Mrs. Moore, what is this echo? ” 

* Don’t you know? ” 

“ No—what is it? oh, do say! I felt you would be 
ADIEUtOme® Oiain aici aan this will comfort me so... . 

“Tf you don’t know, you don’t know; I can’t tell you.” 

“J think you’re rather unkind not to say.” 

“Say, say, say, said thevold lady bitterly. 93 cea 
anything can be said! I have spent my life in saying or 
in listening to sayings; I have listened too much. It is 
time I was left in peace. Not to die,” she added sourly. 
“No doubt you expect me to die, but when I have seen 
you and Ronny married, and seen the other two and 
whether they want to be married—I'll retire then into a 
cave of my own.” She smiled, to bring down her remark 
into ordinary life and thus add to its bitterness. “ Some- 
where where no young people will come asking questions 
and expecting answers. Some shelf.” 

“Quite so, but meantime a trial is coming on,” said 
her son hotly, “and the notion of most of us is that 
we'd better pull together and help one another through, 
instead of being disagreeable. Are you going to talk 
like that in the witness-box?”’ 

“Why should I be in the witness-box ? ”’ 

“To confirm certain points in our evidence.” 

“T have nothing to do with your ludicrous law courts,” 
she said, angry. “I will not be dragged in at all.” 

“I won't have her dragged in, either! I won’t have 
any more trouble on my account,” cried Adela, and again 
took the hand, which was again withdrawn. “ Her evi- 
dence is not the least essential.” 


CAVES 201 


“T thought she would want to give it. No one blames 
you, mother, but the fact remains that you dropped off 
at tne first cave, and encouraged Adela to go on with 
him alone, whereas if you'd been well enough to keep on 
too nothing would have happened. He planned it, I know. 
Still, you fell into his trap just like Fielding and Antony 
before you. . . . Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but 
you've no right to take up this high and mighty attitude 
about law courts. If you're ill, that’s different; but you 
say you're all right and you seem so, in which case I 
thought you’ld want to take your part, I did really.” 

“Tl not have you worry her whether she’s well or 
ill,’ said Adela, leaving the sofa and taking his arm; 
then dropped it with a sigh and sat down again. But he 
was pleased she had rallied to him and surveyed his 
mother patronizingly. He had never felt easy with her. 
She was by no means the dear old lady outsiders sup- 
posed, and India had brought her into the open. 

“T shall attend your marriage, but not your trial,” she 
informed them, tapping her knee; she had become very 
restless, and rather ungraceful. “ Then I shall go to 
England.” 

“You can’t go to England in May, as you agreed.” 

“T have changed my mind.” 

“Well, we'd better end this unexpected wrangle,” said 
the young man, striding about. “ You appear to want 
to be left out of everything, and that’s enough.” 

““My body, my miserable body,” she sighed. “ Why 
isn’t it strong? Oh, why can’t I walk away and be 
gone? Why can’t I finish my duties and be gone? Why 
do I get headaches and puff when I walk? And all the 
time this to do and that to do and this to do in your 
way and that to do in her way, and everything sympathy 
and confusion and bearing one another’s burdens. Why 
can’t this be done and that be done in my way and they 
be done and I at peace? Why has anything to be done, I 
cannot see. Why all this marriage, marriage? . . . The 


+) 


202 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


human race would have become a single person centuries 
ago if marriage was any use. And all this rubbish about 
love, love in a church, love in a cave, as if there is the 
least difference, and I held up from my business over 
such trifles!”’ 

“What do you want?” he said, exasperated. ‘ Can 
you state itin simple language? If so, do.” 

‘““T want my pack of patience cards.” 

“Very well, get them.” 

He found, as he expected, that the poor girl was crying. 
And, as always, an Indian close outside the window, a 
mali in this case, picking up sounds. Much upset, he sat 
silent for a moment, thinking over his mother and her 
senile intrusions. He wished he had never asked her to 
visit India, or become under any obligation to her. 

“Well, my dear girl, this isn’t much of a home-com- 
ing,” he said at last. “I had no idea she had this up 
her sleeve.” 

Adela had stopped crying. An extraordinary expres- 
sion was on her face, half relief, half horror. She re- 
peated, Aziz, Aziz.” 

They all avoided mentioning that name. It had become 
synonymous with the power of evil. He was “ the pris- 
oner,” “the person in question,” ‘‘ the defence,” and the 
sound of it now rang out like the first note of a new sym- 
phony. 

“Aziz ... have J made a mistake?” 

“You’re over-tired,” he cried, not much surprised. 

“ Ronny, he’s innocent; I made an awful mistake.” 

“Well, sit down anyhow.” He looked round the room, 
but only two sparrows were chasing one another. She 
obeyed and took hold of his hand. He stroked it and 
she smiled, and gasped as if she had risen to the surface 
of the water, then touched her ear. 

““ My echo’s better.” 

“That’s good. You'll be perfectly well in a few days, 


CAVES 203 


but you must save yourself up for the trial. Das is a 
very good fellow, we shall all be with you.” 

“But Ronny, dear Ronny, perhaps there oughtn’t to 
be any trial.” 

“T don’t quite know what you’re saying, and I don’t 
think you do.” 

“Tf Dr. Aziz never did it he ought to be let out.” 

A shiver like impending death passed over Ronny. He 
said hurriedly, ‘ He was let. out—until the Mohurram 
riot, when he had to be put in again.” To divert her, 
he told her the story, which was held to be amusing. 
Nureddin had stolen the Nawab Bahadur’s car and driven 
Aziz into a ditch in the dark. Both of them had fallen 
out, and Nureddin had cut his face open. Their wailing 
had been drowned by the cries of the faithful, and it was 
quite a time before they were rescued by the police. 
Nureddin was taken to the Minto Hospital, Aziz restored 
to prison, with an additional charge against him of dis- 
turbing the public peace. “‘ Half a minute,” he remarked 
when the anecdote was over, and went to the telephone 
to ask Callendar to look in as soon as he found it con- 
venient, because she hadn’t borne the journey well. 

When he returned, she was in a nervous crisis, but it 
took a different form—she clung to him, and sobbed, 
“ Help me to do what I ought. Azizis good. You heard 
your mother say so.” 

* Heard what? ” 

*“ He’s good; I’ve been so wrong to accuse him.” 

** Mother never said so.” 

“Didn’t she?” she asked, quite reasonable, open to 
every suggestion anyway. 

“She never mentioned that name once.” 

“ But, Ronny, I heard her.”’ 

“Pure illusion. You can’t be quite well, can you, to 
make up a thing like that.” 

*“T suppose I can’t. How amazing of me!” 


204 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“T was listening to all she said, as far as it could be 
listened to; she gets very incoherent.” 

“When her voice dropped she said it—towards the end, 
when she talked above love—love—I couldn’t follow, but 
just then she said: ‘ Doctor Aziz never did it.’ ” 

“Those words? ”’ 

“The idea more than the words.” 

“Never, never, my dear girl. Complete illusion. His 
name was not mentioned by anyone. Look here—you 
are confusing this with Fielding’s letter.” 

“That's it; that’s’ it;wishe cried oreatly relieved yamaae 
knew I’d heard his name somewhere. I am so grateful 
to you for clearing this up—it’s the sort of mistake that 
wotries me, and proves I’m neurotic.” 

‘“‘So you won’t go saying he’s innocent again, will you? 
for every servant I’ve got is a spy.” He went to the 
window. The mali had gone, or rather had turned into 
two small children—impossible they should know Eng- 
lish, but he sent them packing. ‘‘ They all hate us,” he 
explained. “It'll be all right after the verdict(giocer 
will say this for them, they do accept the accomplished 
fact; but at present they’re pouring out money like water 
to catch us tripping, and a remark like yours is the very 
thing they look out for. It would enable them to say it | 
was a put-up job on the part of us officials. You see 
what I mean.” 

Mrs. Moore came, back, with the same air of ill-temper, 
and sat down with a flump by the card-table. To clear 
the confusion up, Ronny asked her point-blank whether 
she had mentioned the prisoner. She could not under- 
stand the question and the reason of it had to be ex- 
plained. She replied: “I never said his name,’ and 
began to play patience. 

‘“T thought you said, ‘ Aziz is an innocent man,’ but it 
was in Mr, Fielding’s letter.” 

“Of course he is innocent,” she answered indifferently : 


CAVES 205 


it was the first time she had expressed an,opinion on the 
point. 

“You see, Ronny, I was right,” said the girl. 

“You were not right, she never said it.” 

“ But she thinks it.” 

“ Who cares what she thinks?” 

“ Red nine on black ten ” from the card-table. 

“She can think, and Fielding too, but there’s such a 
thing as evidence, I suppose.” 

“I know, but ie 

“Ts it again my duty to talk?”’ asked Mrs. Moore, 
looking up. ‘‘ Apparently, as you keep interrupting me.” 

“Only if you have anything sensibie to say.” 

** Oh, how tedious . . . trivial . . .” and as when she 
had scoffed at love, love, love, her mind seemed to move 
towards them from a great distance and out of darkness. 
“Oh, why is everything still my duty? when shall I be 
free from your fuss? Was he in the cave and were you 
in the cave and on and on... and Unto us a Son is 
born, unto us a Child is given . . . and am I good and 
is he bad and are we saved? . . . and ending everything 
Therechonws 

““T don’t hear it so much,” said Adela, moving towards 
her. “ You send it away, you do nothing but good, you 
are so good.” 

“T am not good, no, bad.’ She spoke more calmly 
and resumed her cards, saying as she turned them up, “ A 
bad old woman, bad, bad, detestable. I used to be good 
with the children growing up, also I meet this young man 
in his mosque, I wanted him to be happy. Good, happy, 
small people. They do not exist, they were a dream. 
... But I will not help you to torture him for what he 
never did. There are different ways of evil and I prefer 
mine to yours.” 

“Have you any evidence in the prisoner’s favour?” 
said Ronny in the tones of the just official. “If so, it is 








206 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


your bounden duty to go into the witness-box for him 
instead of for us. No one will stop you.” 

‘““One knows people’s characters, as you call them,” 
she retorted disdainfully, as if she really knew more than 
character but could not impart it. “I have heard both 
English and Indians speak well of him, and I felt it isn't 
the sort of thing he would do.’”* 

“ Feeble, mother, feeble.”’ 

““ Most feeble.”’ 

“ And most inconsiderate to Adela.” 

Adela said: “ It would be so appalling if I was wrong. 
I should take my own life.” 

He turned on her with: “ What was I warning you just 
now? You know you're right, and the whole station 
knows it.” 

eves hey J. This isivery,-very awtulap ui asncens 
tain as ever he followed me .. . only, wouldn’t it be 
possible to withdraw the case? I dread the idea of giving 
evidence more and more, and you are all so good to 
women here and you have so much more power than in 
England—look at Miss Derek’s motor-car. Oh, of course 
it’s out of the question, I’m ashamed to have mentioned 
it; please forgive me.” : 

“ That’s-ali right,” he said inadequately. ‘“‘ Of course 
I forgive you, as you call it. But the case has to come 
before a magistrate now; it réally must, the machinery 
has started.” 

“She has started the machinery; it will work to its 
end.” 

Adela inclined towards tears in consequence of this 
unkind remark, and Ronny picked up the list of steam- 
ship sailings with an excellent notion in his head. His 
mother ought to leave India at once: she was doing no 
good to herself or to anyone else there. 


CAVES 207 


CHAPTER XXIII 


ADY MELLANBY, wife to the Lieutenant-Governor 
of the Province, had been gratified by the appeal ad- 
dressed to her by the ladies of Chandrapore. She could 
not do anything—besides, she was sailing for England; 
but she desired to be informed if she could show sym- 
pathy in any other way. Mrs. Turton replied that Mr. 
Heaslop’s mother was trying to get a passage, but had 
delayed too long, and all the boats were full; could Lady 
Mellanby use her influence? Not even Lady Mellanby 
could expand the dimensions of a P. and O., but she 
was a very, very nice woman, and she actually wired 
offering the unknown and obscure old lady accommoda- 
tion in her own reserved cabin. It was like a gift from 
heaven; humble and grateful, Ronny could not but re- 
flect that there are compensations for every woe. His 
name was familiar at Government House owing to poor 
Adela, and now Mrs. Moore would stamp it on Lady 
Mellanby’s imagination, as they journeyed across the 
Indian Ocean and up the Red Sea. He had a return of 
tenderness for his mother—as we do for our relatives 
when they receive conspicuous and unexpected honour. 
She was not negligible, she could still arrest the attention 
of a high official’s wife. 

So Mrs. Moore had all she wished; she escaped the 
trial, the marriage, and the hot weather; she would re- 
turn to England in comfort and distinction, and see her 
other children. At her son’s suggestion, and by her own 
desire, she departed. But she accepted her good luck 
without enthusiasm. She had come to that state where 
the horror of the universe and its smallness are both 
visible at the same time—the twilight of the double vision 
in which so many elderly people are involved. If this 
world is not to our taste, well, at all events there is 


208 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


Heaven, Hell, Annihilation—one or other of those large 
things, that huge scenic background of stars, fires, blue 
or black air. All heroic endeavour, and all that is known 
as art, assumes that there is such a background, just as 
all practical endeavour, when the world is to our taste, 
assumes that the world is all. But in the twilight of 
the double vision, a spiritual muddledom is set up for 
which no high-sounding words can be found; we can 
neither act nor refrain from action, we can neither ignore 
nor respect Infinity. Mrs. Moore had always inclined 
to resignation. As soon as she landed in India it seemed 
to her good, and when she saw the water flowing through 
the mosque-tank, or the Ganges, or the moon, caught in 
the shawl of night with all the other stars, it seemed a 
beautiful goal and an easy one. To be one with the 
universe! So dignified and simple. But there was 
always some little duty to be performed first, some new 
card to be turned up from the diminishing pack and 
placed, and while she was pottering about, the Marabar 
struck its gong. 

What had spoken to her in that scoured-out cavity of 
the granite? What dwelt in the first of the caves? Some- 
thing very old and very small. Before time, it was be. 
fore space also. Something snub-nosed, incapable of gen. 
erosity—the undying worm itself. Since hearing its 
voice, she had not entertained one large thought, she was 
actually envious of Adela. All this fuss over a fright- 
ened girl! Nothing had happened, “and if it had,” she 
found herself thinking with the cynicism of a withered 
priestess, “if it had, there are worse evils than love.” 
The unspeakable attempt presented itself to her as love: 
in a cave, in a church—Boum, it amounts to the same. 
Visions are supposed to entail profundity, but Wait 
till you get one, dear reader! The abyss also may be 
petty, the serpent of eternity made of maggots; her con- 
stant thought was: “ Less attention should be paid to my 
future daughter-in-law and more to me, there is no sor- 





CAVES 209 


row like my sorrow,” although when the attention was 


paid she rejected it irritably. 

Her son couldn’t escort her to Bombay, for the local 
situation continued acute, and all officials had to remain 
at their posts. Antony couldn’t come either, in case he 
never returned to give his evidence. So she travelled 
with no one who could remind her of the past. This 
was a relief. The heat had drawn back a little before 
its next advance, and the journey was not unpleasant. 
As she left Chandrapore the moon, full again, shone over 
the Ganges and touched the shrinking channels into 
threads of silver, then veered and looked into her window. 
The swift and comfortable mail-train slid with her 
through the night, and all the next day she was rushing 
through Central India, through landscapes that were 
baked and bleached but had not the hopeless melancholy 
of the plain. She watched the indestructible life of man 
and his changing faces, and the houses he has built for 
himself and God, and they appeared to her not in terms 
of her own trouble but as things to see. There was, for 
instance, a place called Asirgarh which she passed at 
sunset and identified on a map—an enormous fortress 
among wooded hills. No one had ever mentioned Asir- 
garh to her, but it had huge and noble bastions and to 
the right of them was a mosque. She forgot it. Ten 
minutes later, Asirgarh reappeared. The mosque was 
to the left of the bastions now. ‘The train in its descent 
through the Vindyas had described a semicircle round 
Asirgarh. What could she connect it with except its 
own name? Nothing; she knew no one who lived there. 
But it had looked at her twice and seemed to say: “I do 
not vanish.” She woke in the middle of the night with 
a start, for the train was falling over the western cliff. 
Moonlit pinnacles rushed up at her like the fringes of a 
sea; then a brief episode of plain, the real sea, and the 
soupy dawn of Bombay. “I have not seen the right 
places,’ she thought, as she saw embayed in the plat- 


210 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


forms of the Victoria Terminus the end of the rails that 
had carried her over a continent and could never carry 
her back. She would never visit Asirgarh or the other 
untouched places; neither Delhi nor Agra nor the Raj- 
putana cities nor Kashmir, nor the obscurer marvels that 
had sometimes shone through men’s speech: the bilingual 
rock of Girnar, the statue of Shri Belgola, the ruins of 
Mandu and Hampi, temples of Khajraha, gardens of 
Shalimar. As she drove through the huge city which 
the West has built and abandoned with a gesture of 
despair, she longed to stop, though it was only Bombay, 
and disentangle the hundred Indias that passed each other 
in its streets. The feet of the horses moved her on, 
and presently the boat sailed and thousands of coconut 
palms appeared all round the anchorage and climbed the 
hills to wave her farewell. “So you thought an echo 
was India; you took the Marabar caves as final?” they 
laughed. ‘‘ What have we in common with them, or they 
with Asirgarh? Good-bye!” Then the steamer rounded 
Colaba, the continent swung about, the cliff of the Ghats 
melted into the haze of a tropic sea. Lady Mellanby 
turned up and advised her not to stand in the heat: “ We 
are safely out of the frying-pan,” said Lady Mellanby, 
“it will never do to fall into the fire.”’ 


CHAPTER XXIV 


AKING sudden changes of gear, the heat accel- 
erated its advance after Mrs. Moore’s departure 

until existence had to be endured and crime punished with 
the thermometer at a hundred and twelve. Electric fans 
hummed and spat, water splashed on to screens, ice 
clinked, and outside these defences, between a greyish 
sky and a yellowish earth, clouds of dust moved hesi- 
tatingly. In Europe life retreats out of the cold, and 
exquisite fireside myths have resulted—Balder, Per- 


CAVES 211 


sephone—but here the retreat is from the source of life, 
the treacherous sun, and no poetry adorns it because dis- 
illusionment cannot be beautiful. Men yearn for poetry 
though they may not confess it; they desire that joy shall 
be graceful and sorrow august and infinity have a form, 
and India fails to accommodate them. The annual 
helter-skelter of April, when irritability and lust spread 
like a canker, is one of her comments on the orderly hopes 
of humanity. Fish manage better; fish, as the tanks dry, 
wriggle into the mud and wait for the rains to uncake 
them. But men try to be harmonious all the year round, 
and the results are occasionally disastrous. The trium- 
phant machine of civilization may suddenly hitch and be 
immobilized into a car of stone, and at such moments 
the destiny of the English seems to resemble their prede- 
cessors’,, who also entered the country with intent to re- 
fashion it, but were in the end worked into its pattern 
and covered with its dust. 

Adela, after years of intellectualism, had resumed her 
morning kneel to Christianity. There seemed no harm 
in it, it was the shortest and easiest cut to the unseen, 
and she could tack her troubles on to it. Just as the 
Hindu clerks asked Lakshmi for an increase in pay, so 
did she implore Jehovah for a favourable verdict. God 
who saves the King will surely support the police. Her 
deity returned a consoling reply, but the touch of her 
hands on her face started prickly heat, and she seemed 
to swallow and expectorate the same insipid clot of air 
that had weighed on her lungs all the night. Also the 
voice of Mrs. Turton disturbed her. ‘‘ Are you ready, 
young lady?” it pealed from the next room. 

“Half a minute,” she murmured. The Turtons had 
received her after Mrs. Moore left. Their kindness was 
incredible, but it was her position not her character that 
moved them; she was the English girl who had had the 
terrible experience, and for whom too much could not 
be done. No one, except Ronny, had any idea of what 


212 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


passed in her mind, and he only dimly, for where there 
is officialism every human relationship suffers. In her 
sadness she said to him, “I bring you nothing but trou- 
ble; I was right on the Maidan, we had better just be 
friends,’ but he protested, for the more she suffered the 
more highly he valued her. Did she love him? This 
question was somehow draggled up with the Marabar, it 
had been in her mind as she entered the fatal cave. Was 
she capable of loving anyone? 

“Miss Quested, Adela, what d’ye call yourself, it’s 
half-past seven; we ought to think of starting for that 
Court when you feel inclined.” 

‘““She’s saying her prayers,” came the Collector’s voice. 

‘Sorry, my dear; take your time..2%).) W asiey our 
chota hazri all right?” 

“T can’t eat; might I have a little brandy?” she asked, 
deserting Jehovah. 

When it was brought, she shuddered, and said she was 
ready to go. 

“ Drink it up; not a bad notion, a peg.” 

“T don’t think it’ll really help me, Burra Sahib.” 

“You sent brandy down to the Court, didn’t you, 
Mary?” 

“T should think I did, champagne too.” 

“Tl thank you this evening, I’m all to pieces now,” 
said the girl, forming each syllable carefully as if her 
trouble would diminish if it were accurately defined. She 
was afraid of reticence, in case something that she herself 
did not perceive took shape beneath it, and she had re- 
hearsed with Mr. McBryde in an odd, mincing way her 
terrible adventure in the cave, how the man had never 
actually touched her but dragged her about, and so on, 
Her aim this morning was to announce, meticulously, 
that the strain was appalling, and she would probably 
break down under Mr. Amritrao’s cross-examination and 
disgrace her friends. “ My echo has come back again 
badly,” she told them. 


CAVES 213 


“ How about aspirin? ”’ 

‘It is not a headache, it is an echo.” 

Unable to dispel the buzzing in her ears, Major Cal- 
lendar had diagnosed it as a fancy, which must not be 
encouraged. So the Turtons changed the subject. The 
cool little lick of the breeze was passing over the earth, 
dividing night from day; it would fail in ten minutes, but 
they might profit by it for their drive down into the 
city. 

““T am sure to break down,” she repeated. 

“You won't,’ said the Collector, his voice full of 
tenderness. 

“Of course she won’t, she’s a real sport.” 

Pe OUbevirse luttoneee 6 / 

Mey cormuiyrdearechildica: 

“If I do break down, it is of no consequence. It 
would matter in some trials, not in this. I put it to 
myself in the following way: I can really behave as I 
like, cry, be absurd, I am sure to get my verdict, unless 
Mr. Das is most frightfully unjust.’ 

“You're bound to win,” he said calmly, and did not 
remind her that there was bound to be an appeal. The 
Nawab Bahadur had financed the defence, and would 
ruin himself sooner than let an “innocent Moslem per- 
ish,’ and other interests, less reputable, were in the back- 
ground too. The case might go up from court to court, 
with consequences that no official could foresee. Under 
his very eyes, the temper of Chandrapore was altering. 
As his car turned out of the compound, there was a tap 
of silly anger on its paint—a pebble thrown by a child. 
Some larger stones were dropped near the mosque. In 
the Maidan, a squad of native police on motor cycles 
waited to escort them through the bazaars. The Collector 
was irritated and muttered, “‘ McBryde’s an old woman ”’ ; 
but Mrs. Turton said, “ Really, after Mohurram a show 
of force will do no harm; it’s ridiculous to pretend they 
don’t hate us; do give up that farce.’’ He replied in an 


214 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


odd, sad voice, “I don’t hate them, I don’t know why,” 
and he didn’t hate them; for if he did, he would have 
had to condemn his own career as a bad investment. He 
retained a contemptuous affection for the pawns he had 
moved about for so many years, they must be worth his 
pains. “ After all, it’s our women who make everything 
more difficult out here,’ was his inmost thought, as he 
caught sight of some obscenities upon a long blank wall, 
and beneath his chivalry to Miss Quested resentment 
lurked, waiting its day—perhaps there is a grain of re- 
sentment in all chivalry. Some students had gathered 
in front of the City Magistrate’s Court—hysterical boys 
whom he would have faced if alone, but he told the driver 
to work round to the rear of the building. The students 
jeered, and Rafi (hiding behind a comrade that he might 
not be identified) called out the English were cowards. 

They gained Ronny’s private room, where a group of 
their own sort had collected. None were cowardly, all 
nervy, for queer reports kept coming in. The Sweepers 
had just struck, and half the commodes of Chandrapore 
remained desolate in consequence—only half, and Sweep- 
ers from the District, who felt less strongly about the 
innocence of Dr. Aziz, would arrive in the afternoon, 
and break the strike, but why should the grotesque inci- 
dent occur? And a number of Mohammedan ladies had 
sworn to take no food until the prisoner was acquitted; 
their death would make little difference, indeed, being 
invisible, they seemed dead already, nevertheless it was 
disquieting. A new spirit seemed abroad, a rearrange- 
ment, which no one in the stern little band of whites 
could explain. There was a tendency to see Fielding at 
the back of it: the idea that he was weak and cranky 
had been dropped. They abused Fielding vigorously: 
he had been seen driving up with the two counsels, Amri- 
trao and Mahmoud Ali; he encouraged the Boy Scout 
movement for seditious reasons; he received letters with 


CAVES 215 


foreign stamps on them, and was probably a Japanese 
spy. This morning’s verdict would break the renegade, 
but he had done his country and the Empire incalculable 
disservice. While they denounced him, Miss Quested lay 
back with her hands on the arms of her chair and her 
eyes closed, reserving her strength. They noticed her 
after a time, and felt ashamed of making so much noise. 

“Can we do nothing for you?”’ Miss Derek said. 

“T don’t think so, Nancy, and I seem able to do nothing 
for myself.” 

“ But you’re strictly forbidden to talk like that; you’re 
wonderful.” 

* Yes, indeed,” came the reverent chorus. 

“ My old Das is all right,” said Ronny, starting a new 
subject in low tones. 

“Not one of them’s all right,” contradicted Major 
Callendar. 

“ Das is, really.” 

“You mean he’s more frightened of acquitting than 
convicting, because if he acquits he'll lose his job,” said 
Lesley with a clever little laugh. 

Ronny did mean that, but he cherished “ illusions ” 
about his own subordinates (following the finer tradi- 
tions of his service here), and he liked to maintain that 
his old Das really did possess moral courage of the 
Public School brand. He pointed out that—from one 
point of view—it was good that an Indian was taking the 
case. Conviction was inevitable; so better let an Indian 
pronounce it, there would be less fuss in the long run. 
Interested in the argument, he let Adela become dim in 
his mind. 

“In fact, you disapprove of the appeal I forwarded 
to Lady Mellanby,” said Mrs. Turton with considerable 
heat. “ Pray don’t apologize, Mr. Heaslop; I am accus- 
tomed to being in the wrong.” 

y Weddin temean thate ay 


216 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“All right. I said don’t apologize.” 

“Those swine are always on the lookout for a griev- 
ance,” said Lesley, to propitiate her. 

“Swine, I should think so,” the Major echoed. “ And 
what’s more, I'll tell you what. What’s happened is a 
damn good thing really, barring of course its application 
to present company. It’ll make them squeal and it’s time 
they did squeal. I’ve put the fear of God into them at 
the hospital anyhow. You should see the grandson of 
our so-called leading loyalist.” He tittered brutally as 
he described poor Nureddin’s present appearance. “ His 
beauty’s gone, five upper teeth, two lower and a nostril. 
.. . Old Panna Lal brought him the looking-glass yes- 
terday and he blubbered. ... I laughed; I laughed, I 
tell you, and so would you; that used to be one of these 
buck niggers, I thought, now he’s all septic; damn him, 
blast his soul—er—lI believe he was unspeakably im- 
moral—er ” He subsided, nudged in the ribs, but 
added, “I wish I'd had the cutting up of my late as- 
sistant too; nothing’s too bad for these people.”’ 

“At last some sense is being talked,’ Mrs. Turton 
cried, much to her husband’s discomfort. 

“That’s what I say; I say there’s not such a thing as 
cruelty after a thing like this.” 

“Exactly, and remember it afterwards, you men. 
You’re weak, weak, weak. Why, they ought to crawl 
from here to the caves on their hands and knees when- 
ever an Englishwoman’s in sight, they oughtn’t to be 
spoken to, they ought to be spat at, they ought to be 
ground into the dust, we’ve been far too kind with our 
Bridge Parties and the rest.” 

She paused. Profiting by her wrath, the heat had in- 
vaded her. She subsided into a lemon squash, and con- 
tinued between the sips to murmur, ‘“ Weak, weak.” 
And the process was repeated. The issues Miss Quested 
had raised were so much more important than she wag 
herself that people inevitably forgot her. 





CAVES 217 


Presently the case was called. 

Their chairs preceded them into the Court, for it was 
important that they should look dignified. And when 
the chuprassies had made all ready, they filed into the 
ramshackly room with a condescending air, as if it was 
a booth at a fair. The Collector made a small official 
joke as he sat down, at which his entourage smiled, and 
the Indians, who could not hear what he said, felt that 
some new cruelty was afoot, otherwise the sahibs would 
not chuckle. 

The Court was crowded and of course very hot, and 
the first person Adela noticed in it was the humblest of 
all who were present, a person who had no bearing offi- 
cially upon the trial: the man who pulled the punkah. 
Almost naked, and splendidly formed, he sat on a raised 
platform near the back, in the middle of the central gang- 
way, and he caught her attention as she came in, and he 
seemed to control the proceedings. He had the strength 
and beauty that sometimes come to flower in Indians of 
low birth. When that strange race nears the dust and is 
condemned as untouchable, then nature remembers the 
physical perfection that she accomplished elsewhere, and 
throws out a god—not many, but one here and there, to 
prove to society how little its categories impress her. 
This man would have been notable anywhere: among the 
thin-hammed, flat-chested mediocrities of Chandrapore 
he stood out as divine, yet he was of the city, its garbage 
had nourished him, he would end on its rubbish heaps. 
Pulling the rope towards him, relaxing it rhythmically, 
sending swirls of air over others, receiving none himself, 
he seemed apart from human destinies, a male fate, a 
winnower of souls. Opposite him, also on a platform, 
sat the little assistant magistrate, cultivated, self-con- 
scious, and conscientious. The punkah wallah was none 
of these things: he scarcely knew that he existed and did 
not understand why the Court was fuller than usual, 
indeed he did not know that it was fuller than usual, 


218 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


didn’t even know he worked a fan, though he thought 
he pulled a rope. Something in his aloofness impressed 
the girl from middle-class England, and rebuked the nar- 
rowness of her sufferings. In virtue of what had she 
collected this roomful of people together? Her particu- 
lar brand of opinions, and the suburban Jehovah who 
sanctified them—by what right did they claim so much 
importance in the world, and assume the title of civili- 
zation? Mrs. Moore—she looked round, but Mrs. Moore 
was far away on the sea; it was the kind of question 
they might have discussed on the voyage out before the 
old lady had turned disagreeable and queer. 

While thinking of Mrs. Moore she heard sounds, which 
gradually grew more distinct. The epoch-making trial 
had started, and the Superintendent of Police was open- 
ing the case for the prosecution. 

Mr. McBryde was not at pains to be an interesting 
speaker; he left eloquence to the defence, who would 
require it. His attitude was, ‘“‘ Everyone knows the man’s 
guilty, and I am obliged to say so in public before he goes 
to the Andamans.”” He made no moral or emotional ap- 
peal, and it was only by degrees that the studied negli- 
gence of his manner made itself felt, and lashed part of 
the audience to fury. Laboriously did he describe the 
genesis of the picnic. The prisoner had met Miss Quested 
at an entertainment given by the Principal of Govern- 
ment College, and had there conceived his intentions con- 
cerning her: prisoner was a man of loose life, as docu- 
ments found upon him at his arrest would testify, also 
his fellow-assistant, Dr. Panna Lal, was in a position to 
throw light on his character, and Major Callendar him- 
self would speak. Here Mr. McBryde paused. He 
wanted to keep the proceedings as clean as possible, but 
Oriental Pathology, his favourite theme, lay around him, 
and he could not resist it. Taking off his spectacles, as 
was his habit before enunciating a general truth, he 
looked into them sadly, and remarked that the darker 


CAVES 219 


races are physically attracted by the fairer, but not vice 
versa—not a matter for bitterness this, not a matter for 
abuse, but just a fact which any scientific observer will 
confirm. 

“Even when the lady is so uglier than the gentleman? ” 

The comment fell from nowhere, from the ceiling per- 
haps. It was the first interruption, and the Magistrate 
felt bound to censure it. ‘‘ Turn that man out,” he said. 
One of the native policemen took hold of a man who had 
said nothing, and turned him out roughly. Mr. McBryde 
resumed his spectacles and proceeded. But the comment 
had upset Miss Quested. Her body resented being called 
ugly, and trembled. 

“Do you feel faint, Adela?’ asked Miss Derek, who 
tended her with loving indignation. 

lever cteel) anything elses) Nancy.o9 1) shallmpet 
through, but it’s awful, awful.” 

This led to the first of a series of scenes. Her friends 
began to fuss around her, and the Major called out, “I 
must have better arrangements than this made for my pa- 
tient ; why isn’t she given a seat on the platform? She 
gets no air.” 

Mr. Das looked annoyed and said: “I shall be happy 
to accommodate Miss Quested with a chair up here in 
view of the particular circumstances of her health.” The 
chuprassies passed up not one chair but several, and the 
entire party followed Adela on to the platform, Mr. Field- 
ing being the only European who remained in the body 
of the hall. 

“ That’s better,” remarked Mrs. Turton, as she settled 
herself. 

“Thoroughly desirable change for several reasons,” 
replied the Major. 

The Magistrate knew that he ought to censure this 
remark, but did not dare to. Callendar saw that he was 
afraid, and called out authoritatively, ‘‘ Right, McBryde, 
go ahead now; sorry to have interrupted you.” 


220 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“Are you all right yourselves?’’ asked the Superin- 
tendent. 

“ We shall do, we shall do.” 

“Go on, Mr. Das, we are not here to disturb you,” 
said the Collector patronizingly. Indeed, they had not 
so much disturbed the trial as taken charge of it. 

While the prosecution continued, Miss Quested exam- 
ined the hall—timidly at first, as though it would scorch 
her eyes. She observed to left and right of the punkah 
man many a half-known face. Beneath her were gath- 
ered all the wreckage of her silly attempt to see India— 
the people she had met at the Bridge Party, the man and 
his wife who hadn’t sent their carriage, the old man who 
would lend his car, various servants, villagers, officials, 
and the prisoner himself. There he sat—strong, neat 
little Indian with very black hair, and pliant hands. She 
viewed him without special emotion. Since they last met, 
she had elevated him into a principle of evil, but now he 
seemed to be what he had always been—a slight acquaint- 
ance. He was negligible, devoid of significance, dry like 
a bone, and though he was “ guilty’ no atmosphere of 
sin surrounded him. “I suppose he is guilty. Can I 
possibly have made a mistake?” she thought. For this 
question still occurred to her intellect, though since Mrs. 
Moore’s departure it had ceased to trouble her conscience. 

Pleader Mahmoud Ali now arose, and asked with 
ponderous and ill-judged irony whether his client could 
be accommodated on the platform too: even Indians 
felt unwell sometimes, though naturally Major Callendar 
did not think so, being in charge of a Government Hos- 
pital, “ Another example of their exquisite sense of 
humour,’ sang Miss Derek. Ronny looked at Mr. Das 
to see how he would handle the difficulty, and Mr. Das 
became agitated, and snubbed Pleader Mahmoud Ali 
severely. 

“Excuse me It was the turn of the eminent 
barrister from Calcutta. He was a fine-looking man 


39 





CAVES 221 


large and bony, with grey closely cropped hair. “ We 
object to the presence of so many European ladies and 
gentlemen upon the platform,” he said in an Oxford voice. 
“They will have the effect of intimidating our witnesses. 
Their place is with the rest of the public in the body of 
the hall. We have no objection to Miss Quested remain- 
ing on the platform, since she has been unwell; we shall 
extend every courtesy to her throughout, despite the scien- 
tific truths revealed to us by the District Superintendent 
of Police; but we do object to the others.” 

“Oh, cut the cackle and let’s have the verdict,” the 
Major growled. 

The distinguished visitor gazed at the Magistrate re- 
spectfully. 

‘“T agree to that,” said Mr. Das, hiding his face des- 
perately in some papers. “It was only to Miss Quested 
that I gave permission to sit up here. Her friends should 
be so excessively kind as to climb down.” 

“Well done, Das, quite sound,” said Ronny with devas- 
tating honesty. 

“Climb down, indeed, what incredible impertinence! ” 
Mrs. Turton cried. 

“Do come quietly, Mary,” murmured her husband. 

“Hi! my patient can’t be left unattended.” 

“Do you object to the Civil Surgeon remaining, Mr. 
Amritrao?”’ 

“T should object. A platform confers authority.” 

_ ©Fyen when it’s one foot high; so come along all,” 
said the Collector, trying to laugh. 

“Thank you very much, sir,’ said Mr. Das, greatly 
relieved. “‘ Thank you, Mr. Heaslop; thank you, ladies 
all.” 

And the party, including Miss Quested, descended from 
its rash eminence. The news of their humiliation spread 
quickly, and people jeered outside. Their special chairs 
followed them. Mahmoud Ali (who was quite silly and 
useless with hatred) objected even to these; by whose 


>) 


u 


222 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


authority had special chairs been introduced, why had 
the Nawab Bahadur not been given one? etc. People 
began to talk all over the room, about chairs ordinary 
and special, strips of carpet, platforms one foot high. 

But the little excursion had a good effect on Miss 
Quested’s nerves. She felt easier now that she had seen 
all the people who were in the room. It was like know- 
ing the worst. She was sure now that she should come 
through “all right’’—that is to say, without spiritual 
disgrace, and she passed the good news on to Ronny and 
Mrs. Turton. They were too much agitated with the 
defeat to British prestige to be interested. From where 
she sat, she could see the renegade Mr. Fielding. She 
had had a better view of him from the platform, and 
knew that an Indian child perched on his knee. He was 
watching the proceedings, watching her. When their 
eyes met, he turned his away, as if direct intercourse 
was of no interest to him. 

The Magistrate was also happier. He had won the 
battle of the platform, and gained confidence. Intelli- 
gent and impartial, he continued to listen to the evidence, 
and tried to forget that later on he should have to pro- 
nounce a verdict in accordance with it. The Superin- 
tendent trundled steadily forward: he had expected these 
outbursts of insolence—they are the natural gestures of 
an inferior race, and he betrayed no hatred of Aziz, 
merely an abysmal contempt. 

The speech dealt at length with the “ prisoner’s dupes,” 
as they were called—Fielding, the servant Antony, the 
Nawab Bahadur. This aspect of the case had always 
seemed dubious to Miss Quested, and she had asked the 
police not to develop it. But they were playing for a 
heavy sentence, and wanted to prove that the assault was 
premeditated. And in order to illustrate the strategy, 
they produced a plan of the Marabar Hills, showing the 
route that the party had taken, and the “ Tank of the 
Dagger ” where they had camped. 


CAVES 227 


The Magistrate displayed interest in archeology. 

An elevation of a specimen cave was produced; it was 
lettered ‘‘ Buddhist Cave.” 

paNotouddmMstaathinks Jainw. ..7 

“In which cave is the offence alleged, the Buddhist or 
the Jain?” asked Mahmoud Ali, with the air of unmask- 
ing a conspiracy. 

** All the Marabar caves are Jain.” 

Yes, sir; then in which Jain cave?” 

“You will have an opportunity of putting such ques- 
tions later.”’ 

Mr. McBryde smiled faintly at their fatuity. Indians 
invariably collapse over some such point as this. He 
knew that the defence had some wild hope of establishing 
an alibi, that they had tried (unsuccessfully) to identify 
the guide, and that Fielding and Hamidullah had gone 
out to the Kawa Dol and paced and measured all one 
moonlit night. “Mr. Lesley says they’re Buddhist, and 
he ought to know if anyone does. But may I call atten- 
tion to the shape?’’ And he described what had oc- 
curred there. Then he spoke of Miss Derek’s arrival, of 
the scramble down the gully, of the return of the two 
ladies to Chandrapore, and of the document Miss Quested 
signed on her arrival, in which mention was made of the 
field glasses. And then came the culminating evidence: 
the discovery of the field-glasses on the prisoner. “I 
have nothing to add at present,” he concluded, removing 
his spectacles. “ I will now call my witnesses. The facts 
will speak for themselves. The prisoner is one of those 
individuals who have led a double life. I dare say his 
degeneracy gained upon him gradually. He has been very 
cunning at concealing, as is usual with the type, and pre- 
tending to be a respectable member of society, getting a 
Government position even. He is now entirely vicious 
and beyond redemption, I am afraid. He behaved most 
cruelly, most brutally, to another of his guests, another 
English lady. In order to get rid of her, and leave him 


224 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


free for his crime, he crushed her into a cave among his 
servants. However, that is by the way.” 

But his last words brought on another storm, and sud- 
denly a new name, Mrs. Moore, burst on the court like 
a whirlwind. Mahmoud Ali had been enraged, his nerves 
snapped; he shrieked like a maniac, and asked whether 
his client was charged with murder as well as rape, and 
who was this second English lady. 

“‘T don’t propose to call her.” 

“You don’t because you can’t, you have smuggled her 
out of the country; she is Mrs. Moore, she would have 
proved his innocence, she was on our side, she was poor 
Indians’ friend.” 

“You could have called her yourself,” cried the Magis- 
trate. “ Neither side called her, neither must quote her 
as evidence.” 

“She was kept from us until too late—I learn too 
late—this is English justice, here is your British Raj. 
Give us back Mrs. Moore for five minutes only, and she 
will save my friend, she will save the name of his sons; 
don’t rule her out, Mr. Das; take back those words as 
you yourself are a father; tell me where they have put 
Nereeoh, evirs: eViooresie ea 

“Tf the point is of any interest, my mother should 
have reached Aden,” said Ronny dryly; he ought not 
to have intervened, but the onslaught had startled him. 

“Imprisoned by you there because she knew the truth.” 
He was almost out of his mind, and could be heard saying 
above the tumult: “I ruin my career, no matter; we are 
all to be ruined one by one.” 

“This is no way to defend your case,’ 
Magistrate. 

‘““T am not defending a case, nor are you trying one. 
We are both of us slaves.” 

“Mr. Mahmoud Ali, I have already warned you, and 
unless you sit down I shall exercise my authority.” 

“Do so; this trial is a farce, I am going.” And he 


5) 


counselled the 


CAVES 225 


handed his papers to Amritrao and left, calling from the 
door histrionically yet with intense passion, “ Aziz, Aziz 
—farewell for ever.” The tumult increased, the invoca- 
tion of Mrs. Moore continued, and people who did not 
know what the syllables meant repeated them like a 
charm. They became Indianized into Esmiss Esmoor, 
they were taken up in the street outside. In vain the 
Magistrate threatened and expelled. Until the magic ex- 
hausted itself, he was powerless. 

“Unexpected,” remarked Mr. Turton. 

Ronny furnished the explanation. Before she sailed, 
his mother had taken to talk about the Marabar in her 
sleep, especially in the afternoon when servants were on 
the veranda, and her disjointed remarks on Aziz had 
doubtless been sold to Mahmoud Ali for a few annas: 
that kind of thing never ceases in the East. 

“T thought they’d try something of the sort. Ingen- 
ious.’ He looked into their wide-open mouths. “ They 
get just like that over their religion,’ he added calmly. 
“ Start and can’t stop. I’m sorry for your old Das, he’s 
not getting much of a show.” 

“Mr. Heaslop, how disgraceful dragging in your dear 
mother,” said Miss Derek, bending forward. 

Polucmilictuamtuick wandatieyenappenedsto, pull vith oft. 
Now one sees why they had Mahmoud Ali—just to make 
a scene on the chance. It is his specialty.’ But he dis- 
liked it more than he showed. It was revolting to hear 
his mother travestied into Esmiss Esmoor, a Hindu god- 
dess. 

“Esmiss Esmoor 
Esmiss Esmoor 


Esmiss Esmoor 
Esmiss Esmoor... . 


99 





* Ronn 
YMG vel ta bien ba ite © 

Selsn titealiaducer 

“I’m afraid it’s very upsetting for you.” 


226 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“Not the least. I don’t mind it.” 

“Well, that’s good.” 

She had spoken more naturally and healthily than usual. 
Bending into the middle of her friends, she said: “‘ Don’t 
worry about me, I’m much better than I was; I don't feel 
the least faint; I shall be all right, and thank you all, 
thank you, thank you for your kindness.” She had to 
shout her gratitude, for the chant, Esmiss Esmoor, 
went on. 

Suddenly it stopped. It was as if the prayer had been 
heard, and the relics exhibited. “I apologize for my 
colleague,” said Mr. Amritrao, rather to everyone’s sur- 
Dtisewn, He is an intimate friend of our client, and his 
feelings have carried him away.” 

“Mr, Mahmoud Ali will have to Apoleereen in person,” 
the Magistrate said. 

“Exactly, sir, he must. But we had just learnt that 
Mrs. Moore had important evidence which she desired to 
give. She was hurried out of the country by her son be- 
fore she could give it; and this unhinged Mr. Mahmoud 
Ali—coming as it does upon an attempt to intimidate 
our only other European witness, Mr. Fielding. Mr. 
Mahmoud Ali would have said nothing had not Mrs. 
Moore been claimed as a witness by the police.” He sat 
down. 

“An extraneous element is being introduced into the 
case,’ said the Magistrate. “I must repeat that as a 
witness Mrs. Moore does not exist. Neither you, Mr. 
Amritrao, nor, Mr. McBryde, you, have any right to 
surmise what that lady would have said. She is not here, 
and consequently she can say nothing.” 

“Well, I withdraw my reference,” said the Superin- 
tendent wearily. “I would have done so fifteen minutes 
ago if I had been given the chance. She is not of the 
least importance to me.” 

“T have already withdrawn it for the defence.” He 
added with forensic humour: ‘‘ Perhaps you can persuade 


CAVES 227 


the gentlemen outside to withdraw it too,” for the refrain 
in the street continued. 

““T am afraid my powers do not extend so far,” said 
Das, smiling. 

So peace was restored, and when Adela came to give 
her evidence the atmosphere was quieter than it had been 
since the beginning of the trial. Experts were not sur- 
prised. There is no stay in your native. He blazes up 
over a minor point, and has nothing left for the crisis. 
What he seeks is a grievance, and this he had found in 
the supposed abduction of an old lady. He would now 
be less aggrieved when Aziz was deported. 

But the crisis was still to come. 

Adela had always meant to tell the truth and nothing 
but the truth, and she had rehearsed this as a difficult 
task—difficult, because her disaster in the cave was con- 
nected, though by a thread, with another part of her life, 
her engagement to Ronny. She had thought of love just 
before she went in, and had innocently asked Aziz what 
marriage was like, and she supposed that her question 
had roused evil in him. To recount this would have been 
incredibly painful, it was the one point she wanted to 
keep obscure; she was willing to give details that would 
have distressed other girls, but this story of her private 
failure she dared not allude to, and she dreaded being 
examined in public in case somcthing came out. But as 
soon as she rose to reply, and heard the sound of her own 
voice, she feared not even that. A new and unknown 
sensation protected her, like magnificent armour. She 
didn’t think what had happened or even remember in 
the ordinary way of memory, but she returned to the 
Marabar Hills, and spoke from them across a sort of 
darkness to Mr. McBryde. The fatal day recurred, in 
every detail, but now she was of it and not of it at the 
same time, and this double relation gave it indescribable 
splendour. Why had she thought the expedition “ dull ’’? 
Now the sun rose again, the elephant waited, the pale 


228 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


masses of the rock flowed round her and presented the 
first cave; she entered, and a match was reflected in the 
polished walls—all beautiful and significant, though she 
had been blind to it at the time. Questions were asked, 
and to each she found the exact reply; yes, she had 
noticed the “ Tank of the Dagger,” but not known its 
name; yes, Mrs. Moore had been tired after the first 
cave and sat in the shadow of a great rock, near the 
dried-up mud. Smoothly the voice in the distance pro- 
ceeded, leading along the paths of truth, and the airs from 
the punkah behind her wafted her on... . 

“. .. the prisoner and the guide took you on to the 
Kawa Dol, no one else being present? ” 

‘The most wonderfully shaped of those hills. Yes.” 
As she spoke, she created the Kawa Dol, saw the niches 
up the curve of the stone, and felt the heat strike her 
face. And something caused her to add: “ No one else 
was present to my knowledge. We appeared to be alone.” 

“Very well, there is a ledge half-way up the hill, or 
broken ground rather, with caves scattered near the 
beginning of a nullah.” 

““T know where you mean.” 

“You went alone into one of those caves?”’ 

“That is quite correct.” 

“‘ And the prisoner followed you.” 

““ Now we've got ’im,” from the Major. 

She was silent. The court, the place of question, 
awaited her reply. But she could not give it until Aziz 
entered the place of answer. 

“The prisoner followed you, didn’t he?” he repeated 
in the monotonous tones that they both used; they were 
employing agreed words throughout, so that this part of 
the proceedings held no surprises. 

“May I have half a minute before I reply to that, 
Mr. McBryde? ” 

Certainly.” 

Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in 


CAVES 229 


one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, 
for Aziz to passin. She failed to locate him. It was the 
doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, 
like the hills, “ I am not ” Speech was more difficult 
than vision. “ I am not quite sure.” 

“T beg your pardon?” said the Superintendent of 
Police. 

ee lecatinGu be sure...) . 

“TI didn’t catch that answer.” He looked scared, his 
mouth shut with a snap. ‘“ You are on that landing, or 
whatever we term it, and you have entered a cave. I 
suggest to you that the prisoner followed you.” 

She shook her head. 

“What do you mean, please? ” 

“No,” she said in a flat, unattractive voice. Slight 
noises began in various parts of the room, but no one 
yet understood what was occurring except Fielding. He 
saw that she was going to have a nervous breakdown and 
that his friend was saved. 

“What is that, what are you saying? Speak up, 
please.” The Magistrate bent forward. 

“T’m afraid I have made a mistake.” 

“What nature of mistake?” 

“Dr. Aziz never followed me into the cave.” 

The Superintendent slammed down his papers, then 
picked them up and said calmly: “‘ Now, Miss Quested, 
let us goon. I will read you the words of the deposition 
which you signed two hours later in my bungalow.” 

“Excuse me, Mr. McBryde, you cannot go on. I am 
speaking to the witness myself. And the public will be 
silent. If it continues to talk, I have the court cleared. 
Miss Quested, address your remarks to me, who am the 
Magistrate in charge of the case, and realize their ex- 
treme gravity. Remember you speak on oath, Miss 
Quested.”’ 

OTe zizanever 

“T stop these proceedings on medical grounds, 





39 


39 





9) 


cried 


230 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


the Major on a word from Turton, and all the English 
rose from their chairs at once, large white figures behind 
which the little magistrate was hidden. The Indians rose 
too, hundreds of things went on at once, so that after- 
wards each person gave a different account of the catas- 
trophe. 

“You withdraw the charge? Answer me,” shrieked 
the representative of Justice. 

Something that she did not understand took hold of 
the girl and pulled her through. Though the vision was 
over, and she had returned to the insipidity of the world, 
she remembered what she had learnt. Atonement and 
confession—they could wait. It was in hard prosaic 
tones that she said, “I withdraw everything.” 

“ Enough—sit down. Mr. McBryde, do you wish to 
continue in the face of this?” 

The Superintendent gazed at his witness as if she was 
a broken machine, and said, “‘ Are you mad?” 

“Don’t question her, sir; you have no longer the 
right.” 

“Give me time to consider 

“Sahib, you will have to withdraw; this becomes a 
scandal,’ boomed the Nawab Bahadur suddenly from the 
back of the court. 

“He shall not,” shouted Mrs. Turton against the gath- 
ering tumult. “Call the other witnesses; we’re none of 
us safe Ronny tried to check her, and she gave 
him an irritable blow, then screamed insults at Adela. 

The Superintendent moved to the support of his 
friends, saying nonchalantly to the Magistrate as he did 
so, “ Right, I withdraw.” 

Mr. Das rose, nearly dead with the strain. He had 
controlled the case, just controlled it. He had shown 
that an Indian can preside. To those who could hear 
him he said, “‘ The prisoner is released without one stain 
on his character; the question of costs will be decided 
elsewhere.” 


99 








CAVES 231 


And then the flimsy framework of the court broke up, 
the shouts of derision and rage culminated, people 
screamed and cursed, kissed one another, wept passion- 
ately. Here were the English, whom their servants pro- 
tected, there Aziz fainted in Hamidullah’s arms. Victory 
on this side, defeat on that—complete for one moment 
was the antithesis. Then life returned to its complexities, 
person after person struggled out of the room to their 
various purposes, and before long no one remained on 
the scene of the fantasy but the beautiful naked god. 
Unaware that anything unusual had occurred, he con- 
tinued to pull the cord of his punkah, to gaze at the 
empty dais and the overturned special chairs, and 
rhythmically to agitate the clouds of descending dust. 


CHAPTER Rga& Vi. 


Wii QUESTED had renounced her own people. 
Turning from them, she was drawn into a mass 
of Indians of the shopkeeping class, and carried by them 
towards the public exit of the court. The faint, inde- 
scribable smell of the bazaars invaded her, sweeter than 
a London slum, yet more disquieting: a tuft of scented 
cotton wool, wedged in an old man’s ear, fragments of 
pan between his black teeth, odorous powders, oils—the 
Scented East of tradition, but blended with human sweat 
as if a great king had been entangled in ignominy and 
could not free himself, or as if the heat of the sun had 
boiled and fried all the glories of the earth into a single 
mess. They paid no attention to her. They shook hands 
over her shoulder, shouted through her body—for when 
the Indian does ignore his rulers, he becomes genuinely 
unaware of their existence. Without part in the uni- 
verse she had created, she was flung against Mr, Fielding. 
“What do you want here?” 


232 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


Knowing him for her enemy, she passed on into the 
sunlight without speaking. 

He called after her, ‘Where are you going, Miss 
Quested ? ” 

“T don’t know.” 

“You can’t wander about like that. Where’s the car 
you came in?”’ 

‘olyshall walk. 

“What madness . . . there’s supposed to be a riot on 

. . the police have struck, no one knows what’ll hap- 
pen next. Why don’t you keep to your own people? ”’ 

“Ought I to join them?” she said, without emotion. 
She felt emptied, valueless; there was no more virtue 
in her. 

“You can’t, it’s too late. How are you to get round 
to the private entrance now? Come this way with me— 
quick—Tll put you into my carriage.” 

» Cyril) Cyril) dont leavesme, called themsnantere 
voice of Aziz. 

* lm coming back... . This way, and don tjarones 
He gripped’ her» arm. ~~ Excuse manners, but@ledons 
know anyone’s position. Send my carriage back any time 
to-morrow, if you please.”’ 

“But where am I to go in it?” 

“Where you like. How should I know your arrange- 
ments?” 

The victoria was safe in a quiet side lane, but there 
were no horses, for the sais, not expecting the trial would 
end so abruptly, had led them away to visit a friend. 
She got into it obediently. The man could not leave her, 
for the confusion increased, and spots of it sounded 
tanatical. The main road through the bazaars was 
blocked, and the English were gaining the civil station 
by by-ways; they were caught like caterpillars, and could 
have been killed off easily. 

““What—what have you been doing?” he cried sud- 
denly. ‘ Playing a game, studying life, or what?” 


CAVES 233 


“Sir, L intend these for you, sir,” interrupted a student, 
running down the lane with a garland of jasmine on his 
arm. 

“T don’t want the rubbish; get out.” 

“Sir, I am a horse, we shall be your horses,’’ another 
cried as he lifted the shafts of the victoria into the air. 

“Fetch my sais, Rafi; there’s a good chap.” 

meINO Sil this isan honour for us.” 

Fielding wearied of his students. The more they hon- 
oured him the less they obeyed. They lassoed him with 
jasmine and roses, scratched the splash-board against a 
wall, and recited a poem, the noise of which filled the 
lane with a crowd. 

Berlutcyp,. sit; we pull you in vam procession 
And, half affectionate, half impudent, they bundled him 
in. 

“T don’t know whether this suits you, but anyhow 
you're safe,” he remarked. The carriage jerked into the 
main bazaar, where it created some sensation. Miss 
Ouested was so loathed in Chandrapore that her recan- 
tation was discredited, and the rumour ran that she had 
been stricken by the Deity in the middle of her lies. But 
they cheered when they saw her sitting by the heroic 
Principal (some addressed her as Mrs. Moore!), and 
they garlanded her to match him. Half gods, half guys, 
with sausages of flowers round their necks, the pair were 
dragged in the wake of Aziz’ victorious landau. In the 
applause that greeted them some derision mingled. The 
English always stick together! That was the criticism. 
Nor was it unjust. Fielding shared it himself, and knew 
that if some misunderstanding occurred, and an attack 
was made on the girl by his allies, he would be obliged 
to die in her defence. He didn’t want to die for her, he 
wanted to be rejoicing with Aziz. 

Where was the procession going? To friends, to 
enemies, to Aziz’ bungalow, to the Collector’s bungalow, 
to the Minto Hospital where the Civil Surgeon would 


234 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


eat dust and the patients (confused with prisoners) be 
released, to Delhi, Simla. ‘The students thought it was 
going to Government College. When they reached a 
turning, they twisted the victoria to the right, ran it by 
side lanes down a hill and through a garden gate into the 
mango plantation, and, as far as Fielding and Miss 
Quested were concerned, all was peace and quiet. The 
trees were full of glossy foliage and slim green fruit, the 
tank slumbered; and beyond it rose the exquisite blue 
arches of the garden-house. “Sir, we fetch the others; 
sir, it is a somewhat heavy load for our arms,” were 
heard. Fielding took the refugee to his office, and tried 
to telephone to McBryde. But this he could not do; the 
wires had been cut. All his servants had decamped. Once 
more he was unable to desert her. He assigned her a 
couple of rooms, provided her with ice and drinks and 
biscuits, advised her to lie down, and lay down himself— 
there was nothing else to do. He felt restless and 
thwarted as he listened to the retreating sounds of the 
procession, and his joy was rather spoilt by bewilderment. 
It was a victory, but such a queer one. 

At that moment Aziz was crying, “ Cyril, Cyril 
Crammed into a carriage with the Nawab Bahadur, Hami- 
dullah, Mahmoud Ali, his own little boys, and a heap of 
flowers, he was not content; he wanted to be surrounded 
by all who loved him. Victory gave no pleasure, he had 
suffered too much. From the moment of his arrest he 
was done for, he had dropped like a wounded animal; 
he had despaired, not through cowardice, but because he 
knew that an Englishwoman’s word would always out- 
weigh his own. “It is fate,” he said; and, “It is fate,” 
when he was imprisoned anew after Mohurram. All that 
existed, in that terrible time, was affection, and affection 
was all that he felt in the first painful moments of his 
freedom. ‘ Why isn’t Cyril following? Let us turn 
back.” But the procession could not turn back. Like a 
snake in a drain, it advanced down the narrow bazaar 


CAVES 235 


towards the basin of the Maidan, where it would turn 
about itself, and decide on its prey. 

“Forward, forward,’ shrieked Mahmoud Ali, whose 
every utterance had become a yell. ‘‘ Down with the 
Collector, down with the Superintendent of Police.” 

“Mr. Mahmoud Ali, this is not wise,’ implored the 
Nawab Bahadur: he knew that nothing was gained by 
attacking the English, who had fallen into their own pit 
and had better be left there; moreover, he had great 
possessions and deprecated anarchy. 

“Cyril, again you desert,” cried Aziz. 

“Yet some orderly demonstration is necessary,” said 
Hamidullah, “otherwise they will still think we are 
afraid.” 

“Down with the Civil Surgeon... rescue Nured- 
din.” 

“ Nureddin? ”’ 

“They are torturing him.” 

“Oh, my God . . .”’—for this, too, was a friend. 

“They are not. I will not have my grandson made 
an excuse for an attack on the hospital,’ the old man 
protested. 

“They are. Callendar boasted so before the trial. I 
heard through the tatties; he said, ‘I have tortured that 
nigger,’ ”’ 

“Oh, my God, my God. . . . He called him a nigger, 
did he?” 

“They put pepper instead of antiseptic on the wounds.”’ 

“Mr. Mahmoud Ali, impossible; a little roughness will 
not hurt the boy, he needs discipline.” 

“Pepper. Civil Surgeon said so. They hope to de- 
stroy us one by one; they shall fail.’’ 

The new injury lashed the crowd to fury. It had been 
aimless hitherto, and had lacked a grievance. When they 
reached the Maidan and saw the sallow arcades of the 
Minto they shambled towards it howling. It was near 
midday. The earth and sky were insanely ugly, the spirit 


236 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


of evil again strode abroad. The Nawab Bahadur alone 
struggled against it, and told himself that the rumour 
must be untrue. He had seen his grandson in the ward 
only last week. But he too was carried forward over 
the new precipice. To rescue, to maltreat Major Cal- 
lendar in revenge, and then was to come the turn of the 
civil station generally. 

But disaster was averted, and averted by Dr. Panna 
ali 

Dr. Panna Lal had offered to give witness for the 
prosecution in the hope of pleasing the English, also be- 
cause he hated Aziz. When the case broke down, he was 
in a very painful position. He saw the crash coming 
sooner than most people, slipped from the court before 
Mr. Das had finished, and drove Dapple off through the 
bazaars, in flight from the wrath to come. In the hos- 
pital he should be safe, for Major Callendar would pro- 
tect him. But the Major had not come, and now things 
were worse than ever, for here was a mob, entirely de- 
sirous of his blood, and the orderlies were mutinous and 
would not help him over the back wall, or rather hoisted 
him and let him drop back, to the satisfaction of the 
patients. In agony he cried, “ Man can but die the once,” 
and waddled across the compound to meet the invasion, 
salaaming with one hand and holding up a pale yellow 
umbrella in the other. “Oh, forgive me,’ he whined 
as he approached the victorious landau. ‘Oh, Dr. Aziz, 
forgive the wicked lies I told.’ Aziz was silent, the 
others thickened their throats and threw up their chins 
in token of scorn. “I was afraid, I was mislaid,”’ the 
suppliant continued. “I was mislaid here, there, and 
everywhere as regards your character. Oh, forgive the 
poor old hakim who gave you milk when ill! Oh, Nawab 
Bahadur, whoever merciful, is it my poor little dispensary 
you require? Take every cursed bottle.” Agitated, but 
alert, he saw them smile at his indifferent English, and 


CAVES 237 


suddenly he started playing the buffoon, flung down his 
umbrella, trod through it, and struck himself upon the 
nose. He knew what he was doing, and so did they. 
There was nothing pathetic or eternal in the degradation 
of such a man. Of ignoble origin, Dr. Panna Lal pos- 
sessed nothing that could be disgraced, and he wisely 
decided to make the other Indians feel like kings, be- 
cause it would put them into better tempers. When he 
found they wanted Nureddin, he skipped like a goat, he 
scuttled like a hen to do their bidding, the hospital was 
saved, and to the end of his life he could not understand 
why he had not obtained promotion on the morning’s 
work. ‘‘ Promptness, sir, promptness similar to you,” 
was the argument he employed to Major Callendar when 
claiming it. 

When Nureddin emerged, his face all bandaged, there 
was a roar of relief as though the Bastille had fallen. 
It was the crisis of the march, and the Nawab Bahadur 
managed to get the situation into hand. Embracing the 
young man publicly, he began a speech about Justice, 
Courage, Liberty, and Prudence, ranged under heads, 
which cooled the passion of the crowd. He further an- 
nounced that he should give up his British-conferred title, 
and live as a private gentleman, plain Mr. Zulfiqar, for 
which reason he was instantly proceeding to his country 
seat. The landau turned, the crowd accompanied it, the 
crisis was over. The Marabar caves had been a terrible 
strain on the local administration; they altered a good 
many lives and wrecked several careers, but they did not 
break up a continent or even dislocate a district. 

“We will have rejoicings to-night,” the old man said. 
* Mr. Hamidullah, I depute you to bring out our friends 
Fielding and Amritrao, and to discover whether the 
latter will require special food. The others will keep with 
me. We shall not go out to Dilkusha until the cool of 
the evening, of course. I do not know the feelings of 


238 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


other gentlemen; for my own part, I have a slight head- 
ache, and I wish I had thought to ask our good Panna 
Lalitoriaspiriny: 

For the heat was claiming its own, Unable to madden, 
it stupefied, and before long most of the Chandrapore 
combatants were asleep. Those in the civil station kept 
watch a little, fearing an attack, but presently they too 
entered the world of dreams—that world in which a third 
of each man’s life is spent, and which is thought by some 
pessimists to be a premonition of eternity. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


| Peeps approached by the time Fielding and Miss 
Quested met and had the first of their numerous 
curious conversations. He had hoped, when he woke 
up, to find someone had fetched her away, but the Col- 
lege remained isolated from the rest of the universe. She 
asked whether she could have ‘“‘a sort of interview,” 
and, when he made no reply, said, ““ Have you any ex- 
planation of my extraordinary behaviour?” 

“None,” he said curtly. “‘ Why make such a charge 
if you were going to withdraw it?” 

“Why, indeed.” 

“T ought to feel grateful to you, I suppose, bu 

“T don’t expect gratitude. I only thought you might 
care to hear what I have to say.” 

“Oh, well,’ he grumbled, feeling rather schoolboyish, 
*{ don’t think a discussion between us is desirable. To 
put it frankly, I belong to the other side in this ghastly 
affair.” 

“Would it not interest you to hear my side?” 

** Not much.” 

“T shouldn’t tell you in confidence, of course. So you 
can hand on all my remarks to your side, for there is 
one great mercy that has come out of all to-day’s misery 


99 





CAVES 239 


I have no longer any secrets. My echo has gone—TI call 
the buzzing sound in my ears an echo. You see, I have 
been unwell ever since that expedition to the caves, and 
possibly before it.” 

The remark interested him rather; it was what he had 
sometimes suspected himself. ‘“‘ What kind of illness? ” 
he enquired. 

She touched her head at the side, then shook: it. 

“That was my first thought, the day of the arrest: 
hallucination.” 

“Do you think that would be so?” she asked with 
great humility. “ What should have given me an hallu- 
cination? ” 

“ One of three things certainly happened in the Mara- 
bar,” he said, getting drawn into a discussion against his 
will, “One of four things. Either Aziz is guilty, which 
is what your friends think; or you invented the charge 
out of malice, which is what my friends think; or you 
have had an hallucination. I’m very much inclined ”— 
getting up and striding about—‘ now that you tell me 
that you felt unwell before the expedition—it’s an im- 
portant piece of evidence—I believe that you yourself 
broke the strap of the field-glasses; you were alone in 
that cave the whole time.” 

makerhansy eee 

“Can you remember when you first felt out of sorts?” 

“When I came to tea with you there, in that garden- 
house.” 

“A somewhat unlucky party. Aziz and old Godbole 
were both ill after it too.” | 

“T was not ill—it is far too vague to mention: it is 
all mixed up with my private affairs. I enjoyed the 
singing . . . but just about then a sort of sadness began 
that I couldn’t detect at the time ... no, nothing as 
solid as sadness: living at half pressure expresses it best. 
Half pressure. I remember going on to polo with Mr. 
Heaslop at the Maidan. Various other things happened 


240 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


—it doesn’t matter what, but I was under par for all 
of them. I was certainly in that state when I saw the 
caves, and you suggest (nothing shocks or hurts me)— 
you suggest that I had an hallucination there, the sort of 
thing—though in an awful form—that makes some 
women think they’ve had an offer of marriage when none 
was made.”’ 

“You put it honestly, anyhow.” 

“IT was brought up to be honest; the trouble is it gets 
me nowhere.” 

Liking her better, he smiled and said, “It'll get us to 
heaven.” 

SW ilEite 

“Tf heaven existed.” 

“Do you not believe in heaven, Mr. Fielding, may I 
ask?’ she said, looking at him shyly. 

“T do not. Yet I believe that honesty gets us there.” 

“‘ How can that be?”’ | 

“Let us go back to hallucinations. I was watching 
you carefully through your evidence this morning, and if 
I’m right, the hallucination (what you call half pressure 
—quite as good a word) disappeared suddenly.” 

She tried to remember what she had felt in court, but 
could not; the vision disappeared whenever she wished to 
interpret it. ‘“ Events presented themselves to me in their 
logical sequence,” was what she said, but it hadn’t been 
that at all. 

“My beliefi—and of course I was listening carefully, 
in hope you would make some slip—my belief is that 
poor McBryde exorcised you. As soon as he asked you 
a straightforward question, you gave a straightforward 
answer, and broke down.” 

““Exorcise in that sense. I thought you meant I’d seen 
a ghost.” 

“T don’t go to that length! ” 

“People whom I respect very much believe in ghosts,” 
she said rather sharply. “ My friend Mrs. Moore does.” 


CAVES 241 


** She’s an old lady.” 

“JT think you need not be impolite to her, as well as 
to her son.” 

“JT did not intend to be rude. I only meant it is diffi- 
cult, as we get on in life, to resist the supernatural. I’ve 
felt it coming on me myself. [I still jog on without it, 
but what a temptation, at forty-five, to pretend that the 
dead live again; one’s own dead; no one else’s matter.” 

“Because the dead don’t live again.”’ 

meleteat note 

mesOldou Ley 

There was a moment’s silence, such as often follows 
the triumph of rationalism. Then he apologized hand- 
somely enough for his behaviour to Heaslop at the club. 

“What does Dr. Aziz say of me?” she asked, after 
another pause. 

““ He—he has not been capable of thought in his misery, 
naturally he’s very bitter,” said Fielding, a little awk- 
ward, because such remarks as Aziz had made were not 
merely bitter, they were foul. The underlying notion 
was, “ It disgraces me to have been mentioned in connec- 
tion with such a hag.” It enraged him that he had been 
accused by a woman who had no personal beauty; sex- 
ually, he was a snob. This had puzzled and worned 
Fielding. Sensuality, as long as it is straightforward, 
did not repel him, but this derived sensuality—the sort 
that classes a mistress among motor-cars if she is beau- 
tiful, and among eye-flies if she isn’t—was alien to his 
own emotions, and he felt a barrier between himself and 
Aziz whenever it arose. It was, in a new form, the old, 
old trouble that eats the heart out of every civilization: 
snobbery, the desire for possessions, creditable appen- 
dages; and it is to escape this rather than the lusts of the 
flesh that saints retreat into the Himalayas. To change 
the subject, he said, “ But let me conclude my analysis. 
We are agreed that he is not a villain and that you are 
not one, and we aren’t really sure that it was an hallucina- 


242 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


tion. There’s a fourth possibility which we must touch 
on: was it somebody else? ” 

na UHeve li dess 

“ Exactly, the guide. I often think so. Unluckily Aziz 
hit him on the face, and he got a fright and disappeared. 
It is most unsatisfactory, and we hadn’t the police to help 
us, the guide was of no interest to them.”’ 

“Perhaps it was the guide,” she said quietly; the 
question had lost interest for her suddenly. 

“Or could it have been one of that gang of Pathans 
who have been drifting through the district?” 

“Someone who was in another cave, and followed 
me when the guide was looking away? Possibly.” 

At that moment Hamidullah joined them, and seemed 
not too pleased to find them closeted together. Like 
everyone else in Chandrapore, he could make nothing of 
Miss Quested’s conduct. He had overheard their last 
remark; “ Hullo, my dear, Fielding,’ he said, som 
run you down at last. Can you come out at once to Dil- 
kusha? ” 

PUPS TEONCer. 

““T hope to leave in a moment, don’t let me interrupt,” 
said Adela. 

“The telephone has been broken; Miss Quested can’t 
ring up her friends,’ he explained. 

““A great deal has been broken, more than will ever 
be mended,” said the other. “‘ Still, there should be 
some way of transporting this lady back to the civil 
lines. The resources of civilization are numerous.” He 
spoke without looking at Miss Quested, and he ignored 
the slight movement she made towards him with her 
hand. 

Fielding, who thought the meeting might as well be 
friendly, said, “ Miss Quested has been explaining a little 
about her conduct of this morning.’ 

* Perhaps the age of miracles has returned. One must 
be prepared for everything, our philosophers say.” 


CAVES 243 


“Tt must have seemed a miracle to the onlookers,” said 
Adela, addressing him nervously. ‘‘ The fact is that I 
realized before it was too late that J had made a mis- 
take, and had just enough presence of mind to say so. 
That is all my extraordinary conduct amounts to.” 

“ All it amounts to, indeed,” he retorted, quivering 
with rage but keeping himself in hand, for he felt she 
might be setting another trap. “ Speaking as a private 
individual, in a purely informal conversation, I admired 
your conduct, and I was delighted when our warm- 
hearted students garlanded you. But, like Mr. Fielding, 
I am surprised; indeed, surprise is too weak a word. I 
see you drag my best friend into the dirt, damage his 
health and ruin his prospects in a way you cannot con- 
ceive owing to your ignorance of our society and religion, 
and then suddenly you get up in the witness-box: ‘Oh 
no, Mr. McBryde, after all I am not quite sure, you 
may as well let him go.” Am I mad? I keep asking 
myself. Is it a dream, and if so, when did it start? And 
without doubt it is a dream that has not yet finished. For 
I gather you have not done with us yet, and it is now the 
turn of the poor old guide who conducted you round the 
caves.” 

“Not at all, we were only discussing possibilities,” 
interposed Fielding. 

“ An interesting pastime, but a lengthy one. There are 
one hundred and seventy million Indians in this notable 
peninsula, and of course one or other of them entered 
the cave. Of course some Indian is the culprit, we must 
mever doubt that. And since, my dear Fielding, these 
possibilities will take you some time ”—here he put his 
arm over the Englishman’s shoulder and swayed him to 
and fro gently—‘* don’t you think you had better come 
out to the Nawab Bahadur’s—or I should say to Mr. 
Zulfiqar’s, for that is the name he now requires us to call 
him by.” 


Se iGladiyvinva minute: wa). 


244 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“T have just settled my movements,” said Miss 
Quested. ‘I shall go to the Dak Bungalow.” 

“Not the Turtons’?” said Hamidullah, goggle-eyed. 
“T thought you were their guest.” ; 

The Dak Bungalow of Chandrapore was below the 
average, and certainly servantless. Fielding, though he 
continued to sway with Hamidullah, was thinking on in- 
dependent lines, and said in a moment: “I have a better 
idea than that, Miss Quested. You must stop here at 
the College. I shall be away at least two days, and you 
can have the place entirely to yourself, and make your 
plans at your convenience.”’ 

“T don’t agree at all,” said Hamidullah, with every 
symptom of dismay. ‘“ The idea is a thoroughly bad one. 
There may quite well be another demonstration to-night, 
and suppose an attack is made on the College. You 
would be held responsible for this lady’s safety, my dear 
fellow.” 

“They might equally attack the Dak Bungalow.” 

“Exactly, but the responsibility there ceases to be 
yours.” 

“Quite so. I have given trouble enough.” 

“Do you hear? The lady admits it herself. It’s not 
an attack from our people I fear—you should see their 
orderly conduct at the hospital; what we must guard 
against is an attack secretly arranged by the police for 
the purpose of discrediting you. McBryde keeps plenty 
of roughs for this purpose, and this would be the very 
opportunity for him.” 

“Never mind. She is not going to the Dak Bunga- 
low,” said Fielding. He had a natural sympathy for the 
down-trodden—that was partly why he rallied from Aziz 
—and had become determined not to leave the poor girl 
in the lurch. Also, he had a new-born respect for her, 
consequent on their talk. Although her hard school- 
mistressy manner remained, she was no longer examining 


CAVES 245 


life, but being examined by it; she had become a real 
person. 

‘Then where is she to go? We shall never have done 
with her!” For Miss Quested had not appealed to 
Hamidullah. If she had shown emotion in court, broke 
down, beat her breast, and invoked the name of God, she 
would have summoned forth his imagination and gen- 
erosity—he had plenty of both. But while relieving the 
Oriental mind, she had chilled it, with the result that he 
could scarcely believe she was sincere, and indeed from his 
standpoint she was not. For her behaviour rested on 
cold justice and honesty; she had felt, while she recanted, 
no passion of love for those whom she had wronged. 
Truth is not truth in that exacting land unless there go 
with it kindness and more kindness and kindness again, 
unless the Word that was with God also is God. And 
the girl’s sacrifice—so creditable according to Western 
notions—was rightly rejected, because, though it came 
from her heart, it did not include her heart. A few 
garlands from students was all that India ever gave her 
in return. 

““ But where is she to have her dinner, where is she to 
sleep? I say here, here, and if she is hit on the head 
by roughs, she is hit on the head. That is my contribu- 
tion. Well, Miss Quested?”’ 

“You are very kind. I should have said yes, I think, 
but I agree with Mr. Hamidullah. I must give no more 
trouble to you. I believe my best plan is to return to 
the Turtons, and see if they will allow me to sleep, and 
if they turn me away I must go to the Dak. The Col- 
lector would take me in, I know, but Mrs. Turton said 
this morning that she would never see me again.’’ She 
spoke without bitterness, or, as Hamidullah thought, 
without proper pride. Her aim was to cause the mini- 
mum of annoyance. 

“Far better stop here than expose yourself to insults 
from that preposterous woman.” 


246 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“Do you find her preposterous? I used to. I don’t 
now.” 

“ Well, here’s our solution,” said the barrister, who had 
terminated his slightly minatory caress and strolled to 
the window. “Here comes the City Magistrate. He 
comes in a third-class band-ghari for purposes of dis- 
guise, he comes unattended, but here comes the City 
Magistrate.” 

“At last,” said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding 
to glance at her. 

“He comes, he comes, he comes. Icringe. I tremble.” 

“ Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding? ” 

“ He wants you, of course,” 

“He may not even know I’m here.” 

* Til see him first, if you prefer.” 

When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly: 
“Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to 
this further discomfort? He is far too considerate.” 
She made no reply, and there was complete silence be- 
tween them until their host returned. 

‘““He has some news for you,” he said. “ You'll find 
him on the verandah. He prefers not to come in.”’ 

““ Does he tell me to come out to him? ” 

“Whether he tells you or not, you will go, I think,” 
said Hamidullah. 

She paused, then said, “ Perfectly right,” and then said 
a few words of thanks to the Principal for his kindness to 
her during the day. 

“Thank goodness, that’s over,’ he remarked, not 
escorting her to the verandah, for he held it unnecessary 
to see Ronny again. 

“Tt was insulting of him not to come in.” 

“He couldn’t very well after my behaviour to him 
at the Club. Heaslop doesn’t come out badly. Besides, 
Fate has treated him pretty roughly to-day. He has 
ioe a cable to the effect that his mother’s dead, poor old 
soul.” 


CAVES 247 


5 


“Oh, really. Mrs. Moore. I’m sorry,” said Hami- 
dullah rather indifferently. 

“She died at sea.” 

“The heat, I suppose.” 

““ Presumably.” 

“May is no month to allow an old lady to travel in.” 

“Quite so. Heaslop ought never to have let her go, 
and he knows it. Shall we be off?” 

“Let us wait until the happy couple leave the compound 
clear... they really are intolerable _dawdling there. 
Ah well, Fielding, you don’t believe in Providence, I re- 
member. I do. This is Heaslop’s punishment for ab- 
ducting our witness in order to stop us establishing our 
alibi.” 

“You go rather too far there. The poor old lady’s 
evidence could have had no value, shout and shriek Mah- 
moud Ali as he will. She couldn’t see though the Kawa 
Dol even if she had wanted to. Only Miss Quested could 
have saved him.”’ 

“She loved Aziz, he says, also India, and he loved 
hens 

“Love is of no value in a witness, as a barrister ought 
to know. But I see there is about to be an Esmiss 
Esmoor legend at Chandrapore, my dear Hamidullah, and 
I will not impede its growth.” 

The other smiled, and looked at his watch. They both 
regretted the death, but they were middle-aged men, who 
had invested their emotions elsewhere, and outbursts of 
grief could not be expected from them over a slight ac- 
quaintance. It’s only one’s own dead who matter. If 
for a moment the sense of communion in sorrow came 
to them, it passed. How indeed is it possible for one 
human being to be sorry for all the sadness that meets 
him on the face of the earth, for the pain that is endured 
not only by men, but by animals and plants, and perhaps 
by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in 
fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats 


248 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dic- 
tated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead 
woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her 
in the distance once, and they were far more occupied 
with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the “ victory ” 
dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. 
They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the 
morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news 
might spoil his fun. 

“Oh, this is unbearable!” muttered Hamidullah. For 
Miss Quested was back again. 

“Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new mis- 
fortune?” 

He bowed. 

““Ah me!” She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into 
a monument, 

““Heaslop is waiting for you, I think.” 

“IT do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, 
far more to me than to him. I can’t bear to be with 
Ronny 4).;. I can't explain. > .Could you) dotmemie 
very great kindness of letting me stop after all? ” 

Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular. 

““T should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?” 

“T didn’t ask him, we are too much upset—it’s so 
complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. 
Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and 
see Ronny again.” 

“T think he should come in this time,” said Fielding, 
feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. ‘ Do 
ask him to come.” 

She returned with him. He was half miserable, half 
arrogant—indeed, a strange mix-up—and broke at once 
into uneven speech. “I came to bring Miss Quested 
away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there 
is no other arrangement so far, mine are bachelor quar- 
ters now 4 

Fielding stopped him courteously. “Say no more, 


5 





CAVES 249 


Miss Quested stops here. I only wanted to be assured 
of your approval. Miss Quested, you had better send 
for your own servant if he can be found, but I will leave 
orders with mine to do all they can for you, also [ll let 
the Scouts know. They have guarded the College ever 
since it was closed, and may as well go on. I really 
think you'll be as safe here as anywhere. I shall be back 
Thursday.” 

Meanwhile Hamidullah, determined to spare the enemy 
no incidental pain, had said to Ronny: “ We hear, sir, 
that your mother has died. May we ask where the cable 
came from?”’ 

pe Aden 

“Ah, you were boasting she had reached Aden, in 
court.” 

“But she died on leaving Bombay,” broke in Adela. 
“She was dead when they called her name this morning. 
She must have been buried at sea.” 

Somehow this stopped Hamidullah, and he desisted 
from his brutality, which had shocked Fielding more than 
anyone else. He remained silent while the details of Miss 
Quested’s occupation of the College were arranged, 
merely remarking to Ronny, “It is clearly to be under- 
stood, sir, that neither Mr. Fielding nor any of us are 
responsible for this lady’s safety at Government College,” 
to which Ronny agreed. After that, he watched the semi- 
chivalrous behavings of the three English with quiet 
amusement; he thought Fielding had been incredibly silly 
and weak, and he was amazed by the younger people’s 
want of proper pride. When they were driving out to 
Dilkusha, hours late, he said to Amritrao, who accom- 
panied them: “ Mr. Amritrao, have you considered what 
sum Miss Quested ought to pay as compensation?” 

“Twenty thousand rupees.” 

No more was then said, but the remark horrified Field- 
ing. He couldn’t bear to think of the queer honest girl 
losing her money and possibly her young man too. She 


250 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


advanced into his consciousness suddenly. And, fatigued 
by the merciless and enormous day, he lost his usual sane 
view of human intercourse, and felt that we exist not in 
ourselves, but in terms of each others’ minds—a notion 
for which logic offers no support and which had attacked 
him only once before, the evening after the catastrophe, 
when from the verandah of the club he saw the fists and 
fingers of the Marabar swell until they included the whole 
night sky. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


Nae are you awake?”’ 

“No, so let us have a talk; let us dream plans 
for the future.” 

‘““T am useless at dreaming.” 

“ Good night then, dear fellow.” 

The Victory Banquet was over, and the revellers lay 
on the roof of plain Mr. Zulfiqar’s mansion, asleep, or 
gazing through mosquito nets at the stars. Exactly above 
their heads hung the constellation of the Lion, the disc of 
Regulus so large and bright that it resembled a tunnel, 
and when this fancy was accepted all the other stars 
seemed tunnels too. 

“Are you content with our day’s work, Cyril?” the 
voice on his left continued. 

fi Sal dep Vice) Feed 

“ Except that I ate too much. ‘ How is stomach, how 
head? ’—I say, Panna Lal and Callendar’ll get the sack.” 

“There'll be a general move at Chandrapore.”’ 

“ And you'll get promotion.” 

“They can’t well move me down, whatever their 
feelings.” | 

“In any case we spend our holidays together, and visit 
Kashmir, possibly Persia, for I shall have plenty of 
money. Paid to me on account of the injury sustained 


CAVES 251 


by my character,’ he explained with cynical calm. 
“While with me you shall never spend a single pie. 
This is what I have always wished, and as the result of 
my misfortunes it has come.” 

“You have won a great victory . . .” began Fielding. 

“T know, my dear chap, I know; your voice need not 
become so solemn and anxious. I know what you are 
going to say next: Let, oh let Miss Quested off paying, 
so that the English may say, ‘ Here is a native who has 
actually behaved like a gentleman; if it was not for his 
black face we would almost allow him to join our club.’ 
The approval of your compatriots no longer interests 
me, I have become anti-British, and ought to have done 
so sooner, it would have saved me numerous misfor- 
tunes.” 

“Including knowing me.” 

“T say, shall we go and pour water on to Mohammed 
Latif’s face? He is so funny when this is done to him 
asleep.” 

The remark was not a question but a full-stop. Field- 
ing accepted it as such and there was a pause, pleasantly 
filled by a little wind which managed to brush the top 
of the house. The banquet, though riotous, had been 
agreeable, and now the blessings of leisure—unknown to 
the West, which either works or idles—descended on 
the motley company. Civilization strays about like a 
ghost here, revisiting the ruins of empire, and is to be 
found not in great works of art or mighty deeds, but in 
the gestures well-bred Indians make when they sit or 
lie down. Fielding, who had dressed up in native cos- 
tume, learnt from his excessive awkwardness in it that 
all his motions were makeshifts, whereas when the Nawab 
Bahadur stretched out his hand for food or Nureddin 
applauded a song, something beautiful had been accom- 
plished which needed no development. This restfulness 
of gesture—it is the Peace that passeth Understanding, 
after all, it is the social equivalent of Yoga. When the 


252 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


whirring of action ceases, it becomes visible, and reveals 
a civilization which the West can disturb but will never 
acquire. The hand stretches out for ever, the lifted knee 
has the eternity though not the sadness of the grave. Aziz 
was full of civilization this evening, complete, dignified, 
rather hard, and it was with diffidence that the other said: 
“Yes, certainly you must let off Miss Quested easily. 
She must pay all your costs, that is only fair, but do not 
treat her like a conquered enemy.” 

“Is she wealthy! I depute you to find out.” 

“The sums mentioned at dinner when you all got so 
excited—they would ruin her, they are perfectly prepos- 
LerOlsiwelZOOKs herer onss 

‘“T am looking, though it gets a bit dark. I see Cyril 
Fielding to be a very nice chap indeed and my best friend, 
but in some ways a fool. You think that by letting Miss 
Quested off easily I shall make a better reputation for my- 
self and Indians generally. No, no. It will be put down 
to weakness and the attempt to gain promotion officially. 
I have decided to have nothing more to do with British 
India, as a matter of fact. I shall seek service in some 
Moslem State, such as Hyderabad, Bhopal, where Eng- 
lishmen cannot insult me any more. Don’t counsel me 
otherwise.” 

“In the course of a long talk with Miss Quested ... 

“T don’t want to hear your long talks.” 

“Be quiet. In the course of a long talk with Miss 
Quested I have begun to understand her character. It’s 
not an easy one, she being a prig. But she is perfectly 
genuine and very brave. When she saw she was wrong, 
she pulled herself up with a jerk and said so. I want 
you to realize what that means. All her friends around 
her, the entire British Raj pushing her forward. She 
stops, sends the whole thing to smithereens. In her place 
I should have funked it. But she stopped, and almost did 
she become a national heroine, but my students ran us 
down a side street before the crowd caught flame. Do 


99 


CAVES 253 


treat her considerately. She really mustn’t get the worst 
of both worlds. I know what all these ’—he indicated 
the shrouded forms on the roof—* will want, but you 
mustn’t listen to them. Be merciful. Act like one of 
your six Mogul Emperors, or all the six rolled into one.” 

“Not even Mogul Emperors showed mercy until they 
received an apology.” 

“She'll apologize if that’s the trouble,’’ he cried, sitting 
up. “ Look, I'll make you an offer. Dictate to me what- 
ever form of words you like, and this time to-morrow Ill 
bring it back signed. This is not instead of any public 
apology she may make you in law. It’s an addition.” 

“ “Dear Dr. Aziz, I wish you had come into the cave; 
I am an awful old hag, and it is my last chance.’ Will 
she sign that?” 

“Well good night, good night, it’s time to go to sleep, 
after that.” 

“Good night, I suppose it is.” 

“ Oh, I wish you wouldn’t make that kind of remark,” 
he continued after a pause. “It is the one thing in you I 
can’t put up with.” 

“T put up with all things in you, so what is to be 
done?” 

“Well, you hurt me by saying it; good night.” 

There was silence, then dreamily but with deep feeling 
the voice said: ‘‘ Cyril, I have had an idea which will 
satisfy your tender mind: I shall consult Mrs. Moore.” 

Opening his eyes, and beholding thousands of stars, 
he could not reply, they silenced him. 

“Her opinion will solve everything; I can trust her 
so absolutely. If she advises me to pardon this girl, I 
shall do so. She will counsel me nothing against my 
real and true honour, as you might.” 

“Let us discuss that to-morrow morning.” 

“Ts it not strange? I keep on forgetting she has left 
India. During the shouting of her name in court I 
fancied she was present. I had shut my eyes, I confused 


254 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


myself on purpose to deaden the pain. Now this very 
instant I forgot again. I shall be obliged to write. She 
is now far away, well on her way towards Ralph and 
Stella.’ 

“To whom? ” 

“To those other children.” 

“JT have not heard of other children.” 

“ Just as I have two boys and a girl, so has Mrs. Moore. 
She told me in the mosque.” 

“ T knew her so slightly.” 

“‘T have seen her but three times, but I know she is 
an Oriental.” 

“You are so fantastic. . . . Miss Quested, you won't 
treat her generously; while over Mrs. Moore there is 
this elaborate chivalry. Miss Quested anyhow behaved 
decently this morning, whereas the old lady never did 
anything for you at all, and it’s pure conjecture that she 
would have come forward in your favour, it only rests on 
servants’ gossip. Your emotions never seem in propor- 
tion to their objects, Aziz.” 

“Ts emotion a sack of potatoes, so much the pound, to 
be measured out? Am [I a machine? I shall be told I 
can use up my emotions by using them, next.” 

“T should have thought you would. It sounds common 
sense. You can’t eat your cake and have it, even in the 
world of the spirit.” 

“Tf you are right, there is no point in any friend- 
ship; it all comes down to give and take, or give and 
return, which is disgusting, and we had better all leap 
over this parapet and kill ourselves. Is anything wrong 
with you this evening that you grow so materialistic?” 

“Your unfairness is worse than my materialism.” 

“T see. Anything further to complain of?’ He was 
good-tempered and affectionate but a little formidable. 
Imprisonment had made channels for his character, which 
would never fluctuate as widely now as in the past. 
“Because it is far better you put all your difficulties 


CAVES 255 


before me, if we are to be friends for ever. You do not 
like Mrs. Moore, and are annoyed because I do; how- 
ever, you will like her in time.” 

When a person, really dead, is supposed to be alive, 
an unhealthiness infects the conversation. Fielding could 
not stand the tension any longer and blurted out: “ I’m 
sorry to say Mrs. Moore’s dead.” 

But Hamidullah, who had been listening to all their 
talk, and did not want the festive evening spoilt, cried 
from the adjoining bed: “ Aziz, he is trying to pull your 
leg; don’t believe him, the. villain.” 

“T do not believe him,” said Aziz; he was inured to 
practical jokes, even of this type. 

Fielding said no more. Facts are facts, and everyone 
would learn of Mrs. Moore’s death in the morning. But 
it struck him that people are not really dead until they 
are felt to be dead. As long as there is some misunder- 
standing about them, they possess a sort of immortality. 
An experience of his own confirmed this. Many years 
ago he had lost a great friend, a woman, who believed 
in the Christian heaven and assured him that after the 
changes and chances of this mortal life they would meet 
in it again. Fielding was a blank, frank atheist, but he 
respected every opinion his friend held: to do this is 
essential in friendship. And it seemed to him for a time 
that the dead awaited him, and when the illusion faded 
it left behind it an emptiness that was almost guilt: “‘ This 
really is the end,” he thought, “and I gave her the final 
blow.” He had tried to kill Mrs. Moore this evening, on 
the roof of the Nawab Bahadur’s house; but she still 
eluded him, and the atmosphere remained tranquil. 
Presently the moon rose—the exhausted crescent that 
precedes the sun—and shortly after men and oxen began 
their interminable labour, and the gracious interlude, 
which he had tried to curtail, came to its natural con- 
clusion. 


256 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


EAD she was—committed to the deep while still on 
the southward track, for the boats from Bombay 
cannot point towards Europe until Arabia has been 
rounded ; she was further in the tropics than ever achieved 
while on shore, when the sun touched her for the last time 
and her body was lowered into yet another India—the 
Indian Ocean. She left behind her sore discomfort, for a 
death gives a ship a bad name. Who was this Mrs. Moore? 
When Aden was reached, Lady Mellanby cabled, wrote, 
did all that was kind, but the wife of a Lieutenant-Gov- 
ernor does not bargain for such an experience; and she 
repeated: “I had only seen the poor creature for a few 
hours when she was taken ill; really this has been need- 
lessly distressing, it spoils one’s home-coming.” A ghost 
followed the ship up the Red Sea, but failed to enter the 
Mediterranean. Somewhere about Suez there is always a 
social change: the arrangements of Asia weaken and 
those of Europe begin to be felt, and during the transi- 
tion Mrs. Moore was shaken off. At Port Said the grey 
blustery north began. The weather was so cold and 
bracing that the passengers felt it must have broken in the 
land they had left, but it became hotter steadily there in 
accordance with its usual law. 

The death took subtler and more lasting shapes in 
Chandrapore. A legend sprang up that an Englishman 
had killed his mother for trying to save an Indian’s life— 
and there was just enough truth in this to cause annoy- 
ance to the authorities. Sometimes it was a cow that had 
been killed—or a crocodile with the tusks of a boar had 
crawled out of the Ganges. Nonsense of this type is more 
difficult to combat than a solid lie. It hides in rubbish 
heaps and moves when no one is looking. At one period 
two distinct tombs containing Esmiss Esmoor’s remains 


CAVES 257 


were reported: one by the tannery, the other up near the 
goods station. Mr. McBryde visited them both and saw 
signs of the beginning of a cult—earthenware saucers 
and so on. Being an experienced official, he did nothing 
to irritate it, and after a week or so, the rash died down. 
“There’s propaganda behind all this,” he said, forgetting 
that a hundred years ago, when Europeans still made 
their home in the country-side and appealed to its imagina- 
tion, they occasionally became local demons after death— 
not a whole god, perhaps, but part of one, adding an 
epithet or gesture to what already existed, just as the 
gods contribute to the great gods, and they to the eT 
sophic Brahm. 
Ronny reminded himself that his mother had left Tdi 
at her own wish, but his conscience was not clear. He 
had behaved badly to her, and he had either to repent. 
(which involved a mental overturn), or to persist in 
unkindness towards her. He chose the latter course. 
How tiresome she had been with her patronage of Aziz! 
What a bad influence upon Adela! And now she still 
gave trouble with ridiculous “tombs,” mixing herself 
up with natives. She could not help it, of course, but 
she had attempted similar exasperating expeditions in 
her lifetime, and he reckoned it against her. The young 
man had much to worry him—the heat, the local tension, 
the approaching visit of the Lieutenant-Governor, the 
problems of Adela—and threading them all together into 
a grotesque garland were these Indianizations of Mrs. 
Moore. What does happen to one’s mother when she 
dies? Presumably she goes to heaven, anyhow she clears 
out. Ronny’s religion was of the sterilized Public School 
brand, which never goes bad, even in the tropics. Wher- 
ever he entered, mosque, cave, or temple, he retained the 
spiritual outlook of the Fifth Form, and condemned as 
“weakening ”’ any attempt to understand them. Pulling 
himself together, he dismissed the matter from his 
mind. In due time he and his half-brother and sister 


258 A PASSAGE TO INVIA 


would put up a tablet to her in the Northamptonshire 
church where she had worshipped, recording the dates of 
her birth and death and the fact that she had been buried 
at sea. This would be sufficient. 

And Adela—she would have to depart too; he hoped 
she would have made the suggestion herself ere now. He 
really could not marry her—it would mean the end of his 
career. Poor lamentable Adela. . . . She remained at 
Government College, by Fielding’s courtesy—unsuitable 
and humiliating, but no one would receive her at the civil 
station. He postponed all private talk until the award 
against her was decided. Aziz was suing her for damages 
in the sub-judge’s court. Then he would ask her to 
release him. She had killed his love, and it had never 
been very robust; they would never have achieved be- 
trothal but for the accident to the Nawab Bahadur’s car. 
She belonged to the callow academic period of his life 
which he had outgrown—Grasmere, serious talks and 
walks, that sort of thing. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


HE visit of the Lieutenant-Governor of the Province 
formed the next stage in the decomposition of the 
Marabar. Sir Gilbert, though not an enlightened man, 
held enlightened opinions. Exempted by a long career in 
the Secretariate from personal contact with the peoples 
of India, he was able to speak of them urbanely, and to 
deplore racial prejudice. He applauded the outcome of 
the trial, and congratulated Fielding on having taken 
“the broad, the sensible, the only possible charitable 
view from the first. Speaking confidentially . . .” he 
proceeded. Fielding deprecated confidences, but Sir 
Gilbert insisted on imparting them; the affair had been 
“ mishandled by certain of our friends up the hill’? who 
did not realize that “the hands of the clock move for- 


Pe CAVES 259 
ward, not back,” etc., etc. One thing he could guarantee: 
the Principal would receive a most cordial invitation to 
rejoin the club, and he begged, nay commanded him, to 
accept. He returned to his Himalayan altitudes well 
satisfied ; the amount of money Miss Quested would have 
to pay, the precise nature of what had happened in the 
caves—these were local details, and did not concern him. 

Fielding found himself drawn more and more into Miss 
Quested’s affairs. The College remained closed and he 
ate and slept at Hamidullah’s, so there was no reason 
she should not stop on if she wished. In her place he 
would have cleared out, sooner than submit to Ronny’s 
half-hearted and distracted civilities, but she was waiting 
for the hour-glass of her sojourn to run through. A 
house to live in, a garden to walk in during the brief 
moment of the cool—that was all she asked, and he was 
able to provide them. Disaster had shown her her limita- 
tions, and he realized now what a fine loyal character 
she was. Her humility was touching. She never repined 
at getting the worst of both worlds; she regarded it as 
the due punishment of her stupidity. When he hinted to 
her that a personal apology to Aziz might be seemly, she 
said sadly: “Of course. I ought to have thought of it 
myself, my instincts never help me. Why didn’t I rush 
up to him after the trial? Yes, of course I will write him 
an apology, but please will you dictate it?” Between 
them they concocted a letter, sincere, and full of moving 
phrases, but it was not moving as a letter. “Shall I 
write another?” she enquired. “ Nothing matters if I 
can undo the harm I have caused. I can do this right, 
and that right; but when the two are put together they 
come wrong. That’s the defect of my character. I have 
never realized it until now. I thought that if I was just 
and asked questions I would come through every diff- 
culty.” He replied: “ Our letter is a failure for a simple 
reason which we had better face: you have no real affec- 
tion for Aziz, or Indians generally.” She assented. 


260 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“ The first time I saw you, you were wanting to see 
India, not Indians, and it occurred to me: Ah, that won’t 
take us far. Indians know whether they are liked or not 
—they cannot be fooled here. Justice never satisfies them, 
and that is why the British Empire rests on sand.” Then 
she said: “ Do I like anyone, though?”’ Presumably she 
liked Heaslop, and he changed the subject, for this side 
of her life did not concern him. 

His Indian friends were, on the other hand, a bit above 
themselves. Victory, which would have made the Eng- 
lish sanctimonious, made them aggressive. They wanted 
to develop an offensive, and tried to do so by discovering 
new grievances and wrongs, many of which had no exis- 
tence. They suffered from the usual disillusion that 
attends warfare. The aims of battle and the fruits of 
conquest are never the same; the latter have their value 
and only the saint rejects them, but their hint of immor- 
tality vanishes as soon as they are held in the hand. 
Although Sir Gilbert had been courteous, almost 
obsequious, the fabric he represented had in no wise 
bowed its head. British officialism remained, as all- 
pervading and as unpleasant as the sun; and what was 
next to be done against it was not very obvious, even 
to Mahmoud Ali. Loud talk and trivial lawlessness were 
attempted, and behind them continued a genuine but 
vague desire for education. “ Mr. Fielding, we must all 
be educated promptly.” 

Aziz was friendly and domineering. He wanted 
Fielding to “ give in to the East,” as he called it, and 
live in a condition of affectionate dependence upon it. 
“You can trust me, Cyril.” No question of that, and 
Fielding had no roots among his own people. Yet he 
really couldn’t become a sort of Mohammed Latif. When 
they argued about it something racial intruded—not 
bitterly, but inevitably, like the colour of their skins: 
coffee-colour versus pinko-grey. And Aziz would con- 
clude: “ Can’t you see that I’m grateful to you for your 


CAVES 261 


help and want to reward you?” And the other would 
retort: “If you want to reward me, let Miss Quested 
off paying.” 

The insensitiveness about Adela displeased him. It 
would, from every point of view, be right to treat her 
generously, and one day he had the notion of appealing 
to the memory of Mrs. Moore. Aziz had this high and 
fantastic estimate of Mrs. Moore. Her death had been 
a real grief to his warm heart; he wept like a child and 
ordered his three children to weep also. There was no 
doubt that he respected and loved her. Fielding’s first 
attempt was a failure. The reply was: “I see your 
trick. I want revenge on them. Why should I be insulted 
and suffer the contents of my pockets read and my wife’s 
photograph taken to the police station? Also I want the 
money—to educate my little boys, as I explained to her.” 
But he began to weaken, and Fielding was not ashamed 
to practise a little necromancy. Whenever the question 
of compensation came up, he introduced the dead woman’s 
name. Just as other propagandists invented her a tomb, 
so did he raise a questionable image of her in the heart 
of Aziz, saying nothing that he believed to be untrue, but 
producing something that was probably far from the 
brutiees.ziz eyieldedasuddenly, Vy iie felt) it? was: Mrs: 
Moore’s wish that he should spare the woman who was 
about to marry her son, that it was the only honour he 
could pay her, and he renounced with a passionate and 
beautiful outburst the whole of the compensation money, 
claiming only costs. It was fine of him, and, as he fore- 
saw, it won him no credit with the English. They still 
believed he was guilty, they believed it to the end of their 
careers, and retired Anglo-Indians in Tunbridge Wells or 
Cheltenham still murmur to each other: “ That Marabar 
case which broke down because the poor girl couldn’t 
face giving her evidence—that was another bad case.” 

When the affair was thus officially ended, Ronny, who 
was about to be transferred to another part of the 


262 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


Province, approached Fielding with his usual constraint 

and said: “I wish to thank you for the help you have 

given Miss Quested. She will not of course trespass on 

your hospitality further; she has as a matter of fact 

decided to return to England. I have just arranged about 

her passage for her. I understand she would like to see 
ou.” 

“T shall go round at once.” 

On reaching the College, he found her in some upset. 
He learnt that the engagement had been broken by Ronny. 
“Far wiser of him,” she said pathetically. “I ought to 
have spoken myself, but I drifted on wondering what 
would happen. I would willingly have gone on spoiling 
his life through inertia—one has nothing to do, one 
belongs nowhere and becomes a public nuisance without 
realizing it.” In order to reassure him, she added: “I 
speak only of India. I am not astray in England. I fit 
in there—no, don’t think I shall do harm in England. 
When I am forced back there, I shall settle down to some 
career. I have sufficient money left to start myself, and_ 
heaps of friends of my own type. I shall be quite all 
right.” Then sighing: ‘“ But oh, the trouble I’ve brought 
on everyone here. ... I can never get over it. My 
carefulness as to whether we should marry or not... 
and in the end Ronny and I part and aren’t even sorry. 
We ought never to have thought of marriage. Weren’t 
you amazed when our engagement was originally 
announced? ” 

“Not much. At my age one’s seldom amazed,” he 
said, smiling. ‘“‘ Marriage is too absurd in any case. It 
begins and continues for such very slight reasons. The 
social business props it up on one side, and the theological 
business on the other, but neither of them are marriage, 
are they? I’ve friends who can’t remember why they 
married, no more can their wives. I suspect that it mostly 
happens haphazard, though afterwards various noble 
reasons are invented. About marriage J am cynical.” 


CAVES 263 


“Tamnot. This false start has been all my own fault. 
I was bringing to Ronny nothing that ought to be brought, 
that was why he rejected me really. I entered that cave 
thinking: Am I fond of him? I have not yet told you 
that, Mr. Fielding. I didn’t feel justified. Tenderness, 
respect, personal intercourse—TI tried to make them take 
the place—of fs 

“T no longer want love,” he said, supplying the word. 

““No more do I. My experiences here have cured me. 
But I want others to want it,” 

‘But to go back to our first talk (for I suppose this is 
our last one)—-when you entered that cave, who did 
follow you, or did no one follow you? Can you now 
say? I don’t like it left in air.” 

“Let us call it the guide,” she said indifferently. ‘It 
will never be known. It’s as if I ran my finger along 
that polished wall in the dark, and cannot get further. 
I am up against something, and so are you. Mrs. Moore 
—she did know.” 

“How could she have known what we don’t?” 

* Telepathy, possibly.” 

The pert, meagre word fell to the ground. Telepathy? 
What an explanation! Better withdraw it, and Adela 
did so. She was at the end of her spiritual tether, and 
so was he. Were there worlds beyond which they could 
never touch, or did all that is possible enter their con- 
sciousness? They could not tell. They only realized 
that their outlook was more or less similar, and found in 
this a satisfaction. Perhaps life is a mystery, not a 
muddle; they could not tell. Perhaps the hundred Indias 
which fuss and squabble so tiresomely are one, and the 
universe they mirror is one. They had not the apparatus 
for judging. 

“Write to me when you get to England.” 

*T shall, often. You have been excessively kind. Now 
that I’m going, I realize it. I wish I could do something 
for you in return, but I see you’ve all you want.” 





264 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“‘T think so,”’ he replied after a pause. “I have never 
felt more happy and secure out here. I really do get on 
with Indians, and they do trust me. It’s pleasant that I 
haven’t had to resign my job. It’s pleasant to be praised 
by an L.-G, Until the next earthquake I remain as I 
am.” 

“Of course this death has been troubling me.” 

““ Aziz was so fond of her too.” 

“ But it has made me remember that we must all die: 
all these personal relations we try to live by are temporary. 
I used to feel death selected people, it is a notion one 
gets from novels, because some of the characters are 
usually left talking at the end. Now ‘death spares no 
one’ begins to be real.” 

“Don’t let it become too real, or you'll die yourself. 
That is the objection to meditating upon death. We 
are subdued to what we work in. I have felt the same 
temptation, and had to sheer off. I want to go on living 
a bit.” 

ErOO Tomes 

A friendliness, as of dwarfs shaking hands, was in the 
air. Both man and woman were at the height of their 
powers—sensible, honest, even subtle. They spoke the 
same language, and held the same opinions, and the 
variety of age and sex did not divide them. Yet they 
were dissatisfied. When they agreed, “I want to go on 
living a bit,” or, “ I don’t believe in God,” the words were 
followed by a curious backwash as though the universe 
had displaced itself to fill up a tiny void, or as though 
they had seen their own gestures from an immense height 
—dwarfs talking, shaking hands and assuring each other 
that they stood on the same footing of insight. They 
did not think they were wrong, because as soon as honest 
people think they are wrong instability sets up. Not for 
them was an infinite goal behind the stars, and they never 
sought it. But wistfulness descended on them now, as 
on other occasions; the shadow of the shadow of a dream 


CAVES 265 


fell over their clear-cut interests, and objects never seen 
again seemed messages from another world. 

“And I do like you so very much, if I may say so,” 
he affirmed. 

“Tm glad, for I like you. Let’s meet again.” 

“ We will, in England, if I ever take home leave.”’ 

“But I suppose you're not likely to do that yet.” 

“Quite a chance. I have a scheme on now as a matter 
Ofetact.; 

“Oh, that would be very nice.” 

So it petered out. Ten days later Adela went off, by 
the same route as her dead friend. The final beat up 
before the monsoon had come. The country was stricken 
and blurred. Its houses, trees and fields were all modelled 
out of the same brown paste, and the sea at Bombay slid 
about like broth against the quays. Her last Indian 
adventure was with Antony, who followed her on to 
the boat and tried to blackmail her. She had been Mr. 
Fielding’s mistress, Antony said. Perhaps Antony was 
discontented with his tip. She rang the cabin bell and 
had him turned out, but his statement created rather a 
scandal, and people did not speak to her much during the 
first part of the voyage. Through the Indian Ocean and 
the Red Sea she was left to herself, and to the dregs of 
Chandrapore. 

With Egypt the atmosphere altered. The clean sands, 
heaped on each side of the canal, seemed to wipe off every- 
thing that was difficult and equivocal, and even Port 
Said looked pure and charming in the light of a rose-grey 
morning. She went on shore there with an American 
missionary, they walked out to the Lesseps statue, they 
drank the tonic air of the Levant. “To what duties, 
Miss Quested, are you returning in your own country 
after your taste of the tropics?” the missionary asked. 
“Observe, I don’t say to what do you turn, but to what 
do you return. Every life ought to contain both a turn 
anda return. This celebrated pioneer (he pointed to the 


266 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


statue) will make my question clear. He turns to the 
East, he veturns to the West. You can see it from the 
cute position of his hands, one of which holds a string of 
sausages.” The missionary looked at her humorously, in 
order to cover the emptiness of his mind. He had no 
idea what he meant by “turn” and “return,” but he 
often used words in pairs, for the sake of moral bright- 
ness. ‘‘I see,’ she replied. Suddenly, in the Mediter- 
ranean clarity, she had seen. Her first duty on returning 
to England was to look up those other children of Mrs. 
Moore’s, Ralph and Stella, then she would turn to her 
profession. Mrs. Moore had tended to keep the products 
of her two marriages apart, and Adela had not come 
across the younger branch so far. 


CHAPTERVAAX 


NOTHER local consequence of the trial was a 
Hindu-Moslem entente. Loud protestations of amity 
were exchanged by prominent citizens, and there went with 
them a genuine desire for a good understanding. Aziz, 
when he was at the hospital one day, received a visit from 
rather a sympathetic figure: Mr. Das. The magistrate 
sought two favours from him: a remedy for shingles and 
a poem for his brother-in-law’s new monthly magazine. 
He accorded both. 

“My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to 
prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? 
Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him 
the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for 
Hindus.” 

“Tt is not for Hindus, but Indians generally,” he said 
timidly. 

“There is no such person in existence as the general 
Indian.” 

“There was not, but there may be when you have 


CAVES 267 


written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is 
behind you, irrespective of creed.” 

“I know, but will it last? ”’ 

“1 fear not,” said Das, who had much mental clear- 
ness. “ And for that reason, if I may say so, do not intro- 
duce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and 
not too much about the bulbul.”’ 

“Half a sec,’ said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was 
WatLinp Out a prescription, “Here you are, 2 .41s 
not this better than a poem?” 

“Happy the man who can compose both.” 

“You are full of compliments to-day.” 

“IT know you bear me a grudge for trying that cas>,” 
said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. 
“You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony 
beneath your manner.” 

“No, no, what nonsense! ” protested Aziz. They shook 
hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. 
Between people of distant climes there is always the 
possibility of romance, but the various branches of 
Indians know too much about each other to surmount the 
unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. “ Excel- 
lent,” said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, 
“T wish they did not remind me of cow-dung”; Das 
thought, “Some Moslems are very violent.” They 
smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other’s 
heart, and Das, the more articulate, said: “ Excuse my 
mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we 
know it on the earth.” 

“Oh, well, about this poem—how did you hear I some- 
times scribbled?” he asked, much pleased, and a good 
deal moved—for literature had always been a solace to 
him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. 

“ Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his 
departure for Mau.” 

““ How did he hear? ” 

“He too was a poet; do you not divine each other? ” 


268 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that eve- 
ning. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated 
bulbuls at once. His poem was again about the decay 
of Islam and the brevity of love; as sad and sweet as he 
could contrive, but not nourished by personal experience, 
and of no interest to these excellent Hindus. Feeling 
dissatisfied, he rushed to the other extreme, and wrote a 
satire, which was too libellous to print. He could only 
express pathos or venom, though most of his life had 
no concern with either. He loved poetry—science was 
merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unob- 
served like his European dress—and this evening he 
longed to compose a new song which should be acclaimed 
by multitudes and even sung in the fields. In what 
language shall it be written? And what shall it announce? 
He vowed to see more of Indians who were not Moham- 
medans, and never to look backward. It is the only 
healthy course. Of what help, in this latitude and hour, 
are the glories of Cordova and Samarcand? They have 
gone, and while we lament them the English occupy Delhi 
and exclude us from East Africa. Islam itself, though 
true, throws cross-lights over the path to freedom. The 
song of the future must transcend creed. 

The poem for Mr. Bhattacharya never got written, 
but it had an effect. It led him towards the vague and 
bulky figure of a mother-land. He was without natural 
affection for the land of his birth, but the Marabar Hills 
drove him to it. Half closing his eyes, he attempted to 
love India. She must imitate Japan. Not until she is a 
nation will her sons be treated with respect. He grew 
harder and less approachable. The English, whom he 
had laughed at or ignored, persecuted him everywhere; 
they had even thrown nets over his dreams. “ My great 
mistake has been taking our rulers as a joke,” he said to 
Hamidullah next day; who replied with a sigh: “It is 
far the wisest way to take them, but not possible in the 
long run. Sooner or later a disaster such as yours occurs, 


CAVES 269 


and reveals their secret thoughts about our character. 
If God himself descended from heaven into their club 
and said you were innocent, they would disbelieve him. 
Now you see why Mahmoud Ali and self waste so much 
time over intrigues and associate with creatures like Ram 
Chand.” 

“T cannot endure committees, I shall go right away.” 

“Where to? Turtons and Burtons, all are the same.” 

“ But not in an Indian state.” 

“TI believe the Politicals are obliged to have better 
manners. It amounts to no more.” 

“IT do want to get away from British India, even to a 
poor job. I think I could write poetry there. I wish I 
had lived in Babur’s time and fought and written for 
him. Gone, gone, and not even any use to say ‘ Gone, 
gone, for it weakens us while we say it. We need a 
king, Hamidullah; it would make our lives easier. As 
it is, we must try to appreciate these quaint Hindus. My 
notion now is to try for some post as doctor in one of 
their states.” 

“Oh, that is going much too far.” 

“Tt is not going as far as Mr. Ram Chand.” 

“But the money, the money—they will never pay an 
adequate salary, those savage Rajas.”’ 

“T shall never be rich anywhere, it is outside my 
character.” 

“Tf you had been sensible and made Miss Quested 
pay 33 

“T chose not to. Discussion of the past is useless,” 
he said, with sudden sharpness of tone. ‘I have allowed 
her to keep her fortune and buy herself a husband in 
England, for which it will be very necessary. Don’t 
mention the matter again.” 

“Very well, but your life must continue a poor man’s; 
no holidays in Kashmir for you yet, you must stick to 
your profession and rise to a highly paid post, not retire 
to a jungle-state and write poems. Educate your children, 





270 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


read the latest scientific periodicals, compel European 
doctors to respect you. Accept the consequences of your 
own actions like a man.” 

Aziz winked at him slowly and said: “ We are not in 
the law courts. There are many ways of being a man; 
mine is to express what is deepest in my heart.”’ 

“To such a remark there is certainly no reply,” said 
Hamidullah, moved. Recovering himse!f and smiling, he 
said: “Have you heard this naughty rumour that 
Mohammed Latif has got hold of?” 

“Which? ” 

“When Miss Quested stopped in the College, Fielding 
used to visit her . . . rather too late in the evening, the 
servants say.” 

“A pleasant change for her if he did,’ said Aziz, 
making a curious face. 

“But you understand my meaning!”’ 

The young man winked again and said: “ Just! Still, 
your meaning doesn’t help me out of my difficulties. I 
am determined to leave Chandrapore. The problem is, 
for where? J am determined to write poetry. The 
problem is, about what? You give me no assistance.” 
Then, surprising both Hamidullah and himself, he had 
an explosion of nerves. “‘ But who does give me assist- 
ance? No one is my friend. All are traitors, even my 
own children. I have had enough of friends.” 

“IT was going to suggest we go behind the purdah, but 
your three treacherous children are there, so you will not 
want to.” 

“Tam sorry, it is ever since I was in prison my temper 
is strange; take me, forgive me.” 

“ Nureddin’s mother is visiting my wife now. That is 
all right, I think.” 

“They come before me separately, but not so far 
together. You had better prepare them for the united 
shock of my face.” 

“No, let us surprise them without warning, far too 


CAVES uhh 


much nonsense still goes on among our ladies. They 
pretended at the time of your trial they would give up 
purdah! indeed, those of them who can write composed a 
document to that effect, and now it ends in humbug. 
You know how deeply they all respect Fielding, but not 
one of them has seen him. My wife says she will, but 
always when he calls there is some excuse—she is not 
feeling well, she is ashamed of the room, she has no nice 
sweets to offer him, only Elephants’ Ears, and if I say 
Elephants’ Ears are Mr. Fielding’s favourite sweet, she 
replies that he will know how badly hers are made, so 
she cannot see him on their account. For fifteen years, 
my dear boy, have I argued with my begum, for fifteen 
years, and never gained a point, yet the missionaries 
inform us our women are down-trodden. If you want a 
subject for a poem, take this: The Indian lady as she is 
and not as she is supposed to be.” 


CHAPTER XXXI 


ZIZ had no sense of evidence. The sequence of his 
emotions decided his beliefs, and led to the tragic 
coolness between himself and his English friend. They 
had conquered but were not to be crowned. Fielding was 
away at a conference, and after the rumour about Miss 
Quested had been with him undisturbed for a few days, 
he assumed it was true. He had no objection on moral 
grounds to his friends amusing themselves, and Cyril, 
being middle-aged, could no longer expect the pick of the 
female market, and must take his amusement where he 
could find it. But he resented him making up to this 
particular woman, whom he still regarded as his enemy; 
also, why had he not been told? What is friendship 
without confidences? He himself had told things some- 
times regarded as shocking, and the Englishman had 
listened, tolerant, but surrendering nothing in return. 


BZ A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


He met Fielding at the railway station on his return, 
agreed to dine with him, and then started taxing him 
by the oblique method, outwardly merry. An avowed 
Ikuropean scandal there was—Mr. McBryde and Miss 
Derek. Miss Derek’s faithful attachment to Chandra- 
pore was now explained: Mr. McBryde had been caught 
in her room, and his wife was divorcing him. “ That 
pure-minded fellow. However, he will blame the Indian 
climate. Everything is our fault really. Now, have I 
not discovered an important piece of news for you, 


Gyriliges 
“Not very,” said Fielding, who took little interest in 
distant sins. “ Listen to mine.” Aziz’s face litup. “ At 


the conference, it was settled.” 

“This evening will do for schoolmastery. I should go 
straight to the Minto now, the cholera looks bad. We 
begin to have local cases as well as imported. In fact, 
the whole of life is somewhat sad. The new Civil Sur- 
geon is the same as the last, but does not yet dare to be. 
That is all any administrative change amounts to. All 
my suffering has won nothing for us. But look here, 
Cyril, while I remember it. There’s gossip about you as 
well as McBryde. They say that you and Miss Quested 
became also rather too intimate friends. To speak per- 
fectly frankly, they say you and she have been guilty 
of impropriety.” 

“ They would say that.” 

“It’s all over the town, and may injure your reputa- 
tion. You know, every one is by no means your sup- 
porter. I have tried all I could to silence such a story.” 

“Don’t bother. Miss Quested has cleared out at 
laste, 

“It is those who stop in the country, not those who 
leave it, whom such a story injures. Imagine my dismay 
and anxiety. I could scarcely get a wink of sleep. First 
my name was coupled with her and now it is yours.” 

“Don’t use such exaggerated phrases.” 


CAVES 273 


moose What tas 

‘““As dismay and anxiety.” 

“ Have I not lived all my life in India? Do I not know 
what produces a bad impression here?’’ His voice shot 
up rather crossly. 

Wey G5, Dutstuenscaicy the, scaler Your alwaysicetatic 
scale wrong, my dear fellow. A pity there is this rumour, 
but such a very small pity—so small that we may as well 
talk of something else.” 

“You mind for Miss Quested’s sake, though. I can see 
from your face.” 

feas tarmas ldo mind.) ] travel light? 

“Cyril, that boastfulness about travelling light will be 
your ruin. It is raising up enemies against you on all 
sides, and makes me feel excessively uneasy.” 

“What enemies? ”’ 

Since Aziz had only himself in mind, he could not 
reply. Feeling a fool, he became angrier. “I have 
given you list after list of the people who cannot be 
trusted in this city. In your position I should have the 
sense to know I was surrounded by enemies. You 
observe I speak in a low voice. It is because I see your 
eaisiis new. tlow do Liknow he isn'ta spys)’) He 
lowered his voice: “ Every third servant is a spy.” 

““ Now, what is the matter? ” he asked, smiling. 

“Do you contradict my last remark?” 

“It simply doesn’t affect me. Spies are as thick as 
mosquitoes, but it’s years before I shall meet the one that 
kills me. You've something else in your mind.” 

“T’ve not; don’t be ridiculous.”’ 

“You have. You're cross with me about something 
Omotner.: 

Any direct attack threw him out of action. Presently 
he said: “So you and Madamsell Adela used to amuse 
one another in the evening, naughty boy.” 

Those drab and high-minded talks had scarcely made 
for dalliance. Fielding was so startled at the story being 


274 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


taken seriously, and so disliked being called a naughty 
boy, that he lost his head and cried: “‘ You little rotter! 
Well, I’m damned. Amusement indeed. Is it likely at 
such a time?” 

“Oh, I beg your pardon, I’m sure. The licentious 
Oriental imagination was at work,” he replied, speaking 
gaily, but cut to the heart; for hours after his mistake he 
bled inwardly. 

“You see, Aziz, the circumstances .. . also the girl 
was still engaged to Heaslop, also I never felt . . .” 

“Yes, yes; but you didn’t contradict what I said, so 
I thought it was true. Oh dear, East and West. Most 
misleading. Will you please put your little rotter down 
at his hospital? ” 

“You're not offended? ” 

“Most certainly I am not.” 

““Tf you are, this must be cleared up later on.” 

“It has been,’ he answered, dignified. “I believe 
absolutely what you say, and of that there need be no 
further question.” 

“But the way I said it must be cleared up. I was un- 
intentionally rude. Unreserved regrets.”’ 

“The fault is entirely mine.” 

Tangles like this still interrupted their intercourse. A 
pause in the wrong place, an intonation misunderstood, 
and a whole conversation went awry. Fielding had been 
startled, not shocked, but how convey the difference? 
There is always trouble when two people do not think 
of sex at the same moment, always mutual resentment 
and surprise, even when the two people are of the same 
race. He began to recapitulate his feelings about Miss 
Quested. Aziz cut him short with: “ But I believe you, 
I believe. Mohammed Latif shall be severely punished 
for inventing this.” 

“Oh, leave it alone, like all gossip—it’s merely one of 
those half-alive things that try to crowd out real life. 


CAVES 275 


Take no notice, it’ll vanish, like poor old Mrs. Moore’s 
tombs.” 

“Mohammed Latif has taken to intriguing. We are 
already much displeased with him. Will it satisfy you if 
we send him back to his family without a present? ” 

“We'll discuss M.L. at dinner.” 

His eyes went clotted and hard. ‘Dinner. This is 
most unlucky—I forgot. I have promised to dine with 
Das.” 

“Bring Das to me.” 

“He will have invited other friends.” 

“You are coming to dinner with me as arranged,” 
said Fielding, looking away. “I don’t stand this. You 
are coming to dinner with me. You come.” 

They had reached the hospital now. Fielding continued 
round the Maidan alone. He was annoyed with himself, 
but counted on dinner to pull things straight. At the 
post office he saw the Collector. Their vehicles were 
parked side by side while their servants competed in the 
interior of the building. “Good morning; so you are 
back,” said Turton icily. “I should be glad if you will 
put in your appearance at the club this evening.” 

““T have accepted re-election, sir. Do you regard it 
as necessary I should come? I should be glad to be 
excused; indeed, I have a dinner engagement this eve- 
ning.” 

“Tt is not a question of your feelings, but of the wish 
of the Lieutenant-Governor. Perhaps you will ask me 
whether I speak officially. Ido. I shall expect you this 
evening at six. We shall not interfere with your subse- 
quent plans.” 

He attended the grim little function in due course. 
The skeletons of hospitality rattled —“ Have a peg, have a 
drink.” He talked for five minutes to Mrs. Blakiston, 
who was the only surviving female. He talked to 
McBryde, who was defiant about his divorce, conscious 


276 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


that he had sinned as a sahib. He talked to Major 
Roberts, the new Civil Surgeon; and to young Muilner, 
the new City Magistrate; but the more the club changed, 
the more it promised to be the same thing. “It is no 
good,” he thought, as he returned past the mosque, “ we 
all build upon sand; and the more modern the country 
gets, the worse’ll be the crash. In the old eighteenth 
century, when cruelty and injustice raged, an invisible 
power repaired their ravages. Everything echoes now; 
there’s no stopping the echo. The original sound may be 
harmless, but the echo is always evil.” ‘This reflection 
about an echo lay at the verge of Fielding’s mind. He 
could never develop it. It belonged to the universe that 
he had missed or rejected. And the mosque missed it 
too. Like himself, those shallow arcades provided but a 
limited asylum. ‘‘ There is no God but God”’ doesn’t 
carry us far through the complexities of matter and 
spirit; it is only a game with words, really, a religious 
pun, not a religious truth. 

He found Aziz overtired and dispirited, and he deter- 
mined not to allude to their misunderstanding until the 
end of the evening; it would be more acceptable then. 
He made a clean breast about the club—said he had only 
gone under compulsion, and should never attend again 
unless the order was renewed. “ In other words, probably 
never; for I am going quite soon to England.” 

“T thought you might end in England,” he said very 
quietly, then changed the conversation. Rather awk- 
wardly they ate their dinner, then went out to sit in the 
Mogul garden-house. 

“T am only going for a little time. On official busi- 
ness. My service is anxious to get me away from Chan- 
drapore for a bit. It is obliged to value me highly, but 
does not care for me. The situation is somewhat 
humorous.” 

“What is the nature of the business? Will it leave 
you much spare time? ” 


CAVES 277 


“Enough to see my friends.” 

“I expected you to make such a reply. You are a 
faithful friend. Shall we now talk about something 
elsetny 

“Willingly. What subject? ” 

“Poetry,” he said, with tears in his eyes. “ Let us 
discuss why poetry has lost the power of making men 
brave. My mother’s father was also a poet, and fought 
against you in the Mutiny. I might equal him if there 
was another mutiny. As it is, I am a doctor, who has 
won a case and has three children to support, and whose 
chief subject of conversation is official plans.” 

meleetrusutalkeabout poetry. » ie) tutned his: mind. to 
the innocuous subject. “You people are sadly circum- 
stanced. Whatever are you to write about? You can- 
not say, ‘ The rose is faded,’ for evermore. We know 
it’s faded. Yet you can’t have patriotic poetry of the 
‘India, my India’ type, when it’s nobody’s India.” 

“‘T like this conversation. It may lead to something 
interesting.” 

“You are quite right in thinking that poetry must 
touch life. When I knew you first, you used it as an 
incantation.” 

“T was a child when you knew me first. Everyone 
was my friend then. The Friend: a Persian expression 
for God. But I do not want to bea religious poet either.” 

“IT hoped you would be.” 

“Why, when you yourself are an atheist?” 

“There is something in religion that may not be true, 
but has not yet been sung.” 

~ Explain in detail.” 

“Something that the Hindus have perhaps found.” 

* Let them sing it.” 

“Hindus are unable to sing.” 

“Cyril, you sometimes make a sensible remark. That 
will do for poetry for the present. Let us now return to 
your English visit.” 


278 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“We haven’t discussed poetry for two seconds,” said 
the other, smiling. 

But Aziz was addicted to cameos. He held the tiny 
conversation in his hand, and felt it epitomized his 
problem. For an instant he recalled his wife, and, as 
happens when a memory is intense, the past became the 
future, and he saw her with him in a quiet Hindu jungle 
native state, far away from foreigners. He said: “I 
suppose you will visit Miss Quested.”’ , 

“Tf I have time. It will be strange seeing her in 
Hampstead.” 

“What is Hampstead ?” 

“An artistic and thoughtful little suburb of Lon- 
don——” 

‘“‘ And there she lives in comfort: you will enjoy seeing 
her. . . . Dear me, I’ve got a headache this evening. 
Perhaps I am going to have cholera. With your per- 
mission, I'll leave early.” 

“When would you like the carriage? ”’ 

“Don’t trouble—I’ll bike.” 

“But you haven’t got your bicycle. My carriage 
fetched you—let it take you away.” 

“ Sound ‘reasoning, > he said, trying to be gaya 
have not got my bicycle. But I am seen too often in 
your carriage. lam thought to take advantage of your 
generosity by Mr. Ram Chand.” He was out of sorts 
and uneasy. The conversation jumped from topic to 
topic in a broken-backed fashion. They were affectionate 
and intimate, but nothing clicked tight. 

“ Aziz, you have forgiven me the stupid remark I 
made this morning? ” 

“When you called me a little rotter?”’ 

“Yes, to my eternal confusion. You know how fond 
GTi e roy ay 'coy) Hee 

“That is nothing, of course; we all of us make mis- 
takes. In a friendship such as ours a few slips are of 
no consequence.” 


CAVES 279 


But as he drove off, something depressed him—a dull 
pain of body or mind, waiting to rise to the surface. 
When he reached the bungalow he wanted to return and 
say something very affectionate; instead, he gave the 
sais a heavy tip, and sat down gloomily on the bed, and 
Hassan massaged him incompetently. The eye-flies had 
colonized the top of an almeira; the red stains on the 
durry were thicker, for Mohammed Latif had slept here 
during his imprisonment and spat a good deal; the table 
drawer was scarred where the police had forced it open; 
everything in Chandrapore was used up, including the 
air. The trouble rose to the surface now: he was sus- 
picious; he suspected his friend of intending to marry 
Miss Quested for the sake of her money, and of going to 
England for that purpose. 

“* Huzoor ? ’—for he had muttered. 

“Look at those flies on the ceiling. Why have you 
not drowned them?” 

“ Huzoor, they return.” 

* Like all evil things.” 

To divert the conversation, Hassan related how the 
kitchen-boy had killed a snake, good, but killed it by 
cutting it in two, bad, because it becomes two snakes. 

“ When he breaks a plate, does it become two plates? ”’ 

“Glasses and a new teapot will similarly be required, 
also for myself a coat.” 

Aziz sighed. Each for himself. One man needs a coat, 
another a rich wife; each approaches his goal by a clever 
detour. Fielding had saved the girl a fine of twenty thou- 
sand rupees, and now followed her to England. If he 
desired to marry her, all was explained; she would bring 
him a larger dowry. Aziz did not believe his own sus- 
picions—better if he had, for then he would have 
denounced and cleared the situation up. Suspicion and 
belief could in his mind exist side by side. They sprang 
from different sources, and need never intermingle. Sus- 
picion in the Oriental is a sort of malignant tumour, a 


280 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


mental malady, that makes him self-conscious and un- 
friendly suddenly; he trusts and mistrusts at the same 
time in a way the Westerner cannot comprehend. It is 
his demon, as the Westerner’s is hypocrisy. Aziz was 
seized by it, and his fancy built a satanic castle, of which 
the foundation had been laid when he talked at Dilkusha 
under the stars. The girl had surely been Cyril’s mistress 
when she stopped in the College—Mohammed Latif was 
right. But was that all? Perhaps it was Cyril who 
followed her into the cave. . . . No; impossible. Cyril 
hadn’t been on the Kawa Dol at all. Impossible. Ridic- 
ulous. Yet the fancy left him trembling with misery. 
Such treachery—if true—would have been the worst in 
Indian history; nothing so vile, not even the murder of 
Afzul Khan by Sivaji. He was shaken, as though by a 
truth, and told Hassan to leave him. 

Next day he decided to take his children back to 
Mussoorie. They had come down for the trial, that he 
might bid them farewell, and had stayed on at Hami- 
dullah’s for the rejoicings. Major Roberts would give 
him leave, and during his absence Fielding would go off 
to England. The idea suited both his beliefs and his 
suspicions. Events would prove which was right, and 
preserve, in either case, his dignity. 

Fielding was conscious of something hostile, and be- 
cause he was really fond of Aziz his optimism failed him. 
Travelling light is less easy as soon as affection is in- 
volved. Unable to jog forward in the serene hope that 
all would come right, he wrote an elaborate letter in the 
rather modern style: “It is on my mind that you think 
me a prude about women. I had rather you thought any- 
thing else of me. If I live impeccably now, it is only 
because | am well on the forties—a period of revision. 
In the eighties I shall revise again. And before the 
nineties come—I shall be revised! But, alive or dead, I 
am absolutely devoid of morals. Do kindly grasp this 
about me.” Aziz did not care for the letter at all. It hurt 


CAVES 281 


his delicacy. He liked confidences, however gross, but 
generalizations and comparisons always repelled him. 
Life is not a scientific manual. He replied coldly, regret- 
ting his inability to return from Mussoorie before his 
friend sailed: “ But I must take my poor little holiday 
while I can. All must be economy henceforward, all 
hopes of Kashmir have vanished for ever and ever. 
When you return I shall be slaving far away in some new 
Cistes 

And Fielding went, and in the last gutterings of Chan- 
drapore—heaven and earth both looking like toffee—the 
Indian’s bad fancies were confirmed. His friends en- 
couraged them, for though they had liked the Principal, 
they felt uneasy at his getting to know so much about 
their private affairs. Mahmoud Ali soon declared that 
treachery was afoot. Hamidullah murmured, “ Cer- 
tainly of late he no longer addressed us with his former 
frankness,’ and warned Aziz “ not to expect too much— 
he and she are, after all, both members of another race.” 
“Where are my twenty thousand rupees?” he thought. 
He was absolutely indifferent to money—not merely 
generous with it, but promptly paying his debts when 
he could remember to do so—yet these rupees haunted 
his mind, because he had been tricked about them, and 
allowed them to escape overseas, like so much of the 
wealth of India. Cyril would marry Miss Quested—he 
grew certain of it, all the unexplained residue of the 
Marabar contributing. It was the natural conclusion of 
the horrible senseless picnic, and before long he persuaded 
himself that the wedding had actually taken place. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


Bo was charming—a green strip of carpet and 
walking up and down it four sorts of animals and 
one sort of man. Fielding’s business took him there for 


282 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


a few days. He re-embarked at Alexandria—bright blue 
sky, constant wind, clean low coast-line, as against the 
intricacies of Bombay. Crete welcomed him next with 
the long snowy ridge of its mountains, and then came 
Venice. As he landed on the piazzetta a cup of beauty 
was lifted to his lips, and he drank with a sense of dis- 
loyalty. The buildings of Venice, like the mountains of 
Crete and the fields of Egypt, stood in the right place, 
whereas in poor India everything was placed wrong. 
He had forgotten the beauty of form among idol temples 
and lumpy hills; indeed, without form, how can there be 
beauty? Form stammered here and there in a mosque, 
became rigid through nervousness even, but oh these 
Italian churches! San Giorgio standing on the island 
which could scarcely have risen from the waves without 
it, the Salute holding the entrance of a canal which, but 
for it, would not be the Grand Canal! In the old under- 
graduate days he had wrapped himself up in the many- 
coloured blanket of St. Mark’s, but something more 
precious than mosaics and marbles was offered to him 
now: the harmony between the works of man and the 
earth that upholds them, the civilization that has escaped 
muddle, the spirit in a reasonable form, with flesh and 
blood subsisting. Writing picture post-cards to his Indian 
friends, he felt that all of them would miss the joys he 
experienced now, the joys of form, and that this con- 
stituted a serious barrier. They would see the sumptuous- 
ness of Venice, not its shape, and though Venice was 
not Europe, it was part of the Mediterranean harmony. 
The Mediterranean is the human norm. When men 
leave that exquisite lake, whether through the Bosphorus 
or the Pillars of Hercules, they approach the monstrous 
and extraordinary; and the southern exit leads to the 
strangest experience of all. Turning his back on it yet 
again, he took the train northward, and tender romantic 
fancies that he thought were dead for ever, flowered when 
he saw the buttercups and daisies of June. 


PART II: TEMPLE 
CHAPTER XXXIII 


OME hundreds of miles westward of the Marabar 
Hills, and two years later in time, Professor Narayan 
Godbole stands in the presence of God. God is not born 
yet—that will occur at midnight—but He has also been 
born centuries ago, nor can He ever be born, because He 
is the Lord of the Universe, who transcends human proc- 
esses. He is, was not, is not, was. He and Professor 
Godbole stood at opposite ends of the same strip of 
carpet. 


“ Tukaram, Tukaram, 
Thou art my father and mother and everybody. 
Tukaram, Tukaram, 
Thou art my father and mother and everybody. 
Tukaram, Tukaram, 
Thou art my father and mother and everybody. 
Tukaram, Tukaram, 
Thou art my father and mother and everybody. 
karat ree a 


This corridor in the palace at Mau opened through other 
corridors into a courtyard. It was of beautiful hard 
white stucco, but its pillars and vaulting could scarcely 
be seen behind coloured rags, iridescent balls, chandeliers 
of opaque pink glass, and murky photographs framed 
crookedly. At the end was the small but famous shrine 
of the dynastic cult, and the God to be born was largely 
a silver image the size of a teaspoon. Hindus sat on 
either side of the carpet where they could find room, or 
overflowed into the adjoining corridors and the court- 
yard—Hindus, Hindus only, mild-featured men, mostly 


villagers, for whom anything outside their villages passed 
283 


284 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


in a dream. They were the toiling ryot, whom some 
call the real India. Mixed with them sat a few trades- 
men out of the little town, officials, courtiers, scions of 
the ruling house. Schoolboys kept inefficient order. The 
assembly was in a tender, happy state unknown to an 
English crowd, it seethed like a beneficent potion. When 
the villagers broke cordon for a glimpse of the silver 
image, a most beautiful and radiant expression came into 
their faces, a beauty in which there was nothing personal, 
for it caused them all to resemble one another during the 
moment of its indwelling, and only when it was with- 
drawn did they revert to individual clods. And so with 
the music. Music there was, but from so many sources 
that the sum-total was untrammelled. The braying 
banging crooning melted into a single mass which trailed 
round the palace before joining the thunder. Rain fell 
at intervals throughout the night. 

It was the turn of Professor Godbole’s choir. As 
Minister of Education, he gained this special honour. 
When the previous group of singers dispersed into the 
crowd, he pressed forward from the back, already in full 
voice, that the chain of sacred sounds might be uninter- 
rupted. He was barefoot and in white, he wore a pale 
blue turban; his gold pince-nez had caught in a jasmine 
garland, and lay sideways down his nose. He and the 
six colleagues who supported him clashed their cymbals, 
hit small drums, droned upon a portable harmonium, and 
sang : 


fe bukaram.e! ukaram, 
Thou art my father and mother and everybody. 
Tukaram, Tukaram, 
Thou art my father and mother and everybody. 
fhakaram,slukaram. 2.42 


They sang not even to the God whe confronted them, 
but to a saint; they did not one thing which the non- 
Hindu would feel dramatically correct; this approaching 


TEMPLE 285 


triumph of India was a muddle (as we call it), a frustra- 
tion of reason and form. Where was the God Himself, 
in whose honour the congregation had gathered? Indis- 
tinguishable in the jumble of His own altar, huddled out 
of sight amid images of inferior descent, smothered under 
rose-leaves, overhung by oleographs, outblazed by golden 
tablets representing the Rajah’s ancestors, and entirely 
obscured, when the wind blew, by the tattered foliage 
of a banana. Hundreds of electric lights had been lit 
in His honour (worked by an engine whose thumps 
destroyed the rhythm of the hymn). Yet His face could 
not be seen. Hundreds of His silver dishes were piled 
around Him with the minimum of effect. The inscrip- 
tions which the poets of the State had composed were 
hung where they could not be read, or had twitched their 
drawing-pins out of the stucco, and one of them (com- 
posed in English to indicate His universality) consisted, 
by an unfortunate slip of the draughtsman, of the words, 
mGodusis Love.” 
God si Love. Is this the first message of India? 


9) 


Nebtukaram-a. Ukaramne: 


continued the choir, reinforced by a squabble behind the 
purdah curtain, where two mothers tried to push their 
children at the same moment to the front. A little girl’s 
leg shot out like an eel. In the courtyard, drenched by 
the rain, the small Europeanized band stumbled off into 
a waltz. “ Nights of Gladness ”’ they were playing. The 
singers were not perturbed by this rival, they lived 
beyond competition. It was long before the tiny frag- 
ment of Professor Godbole that attended to outside things 
decided that his pince-nez was in trouble, and that until 
it was adjusted he could not choose a new hymn. He 
laid down one cymbal, with the other he clashed the air, 
with his free hand he fumbled at the flowers round his 
neck. A colleague assisted him. Singing into one an- 


286 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


other’s grey moustaches, they disentangled the chain from 
the tinsel into which it had sunk. Godbole consulted the 
music-book, said a word to the drummer, who broke 
rhythm, made a thick little blur of sound, and produced 
anew rhythm, This was more exciting, the inner images 
it evoked more definite, and the singers’ expressions 
became fatuous and languid. They loved all men, the 
whole universe, and scraps of their past, tiny splinters 
of detail, emerged for a moment to melt into the universal 
warmth. Thus Godbole, though she was not important 
to him, remembered an old woman he had met in Chan- 
drapore days. Chance brought her into his mind while 
it was in this heated state, he did not select her, she hap- 
pened to occur among the throng of soliciting images, a 
tiny splinter, and he impelled her by his spiritual force 
to that place where completeness can be found. Com- 
pleteness, not reconstruction. His senses grew thinner, 
he remembered a wasp seen he forgot where, perhaps on 
a stone. He loved the wasp equally, he impelled it like- 
wise, he was imitating God. And the stone where the 
wasp clung—could he . . . no, he could not, he had been 
wrong to attempt the stone, logic and conscious effort 
had seduced, he came back to the strip of red carpet and 
discovered that he was dancing upon it. Up and down, 
a third of the way to the altar and back again, clashing 
his cymbals, his little legs twinkling, his companions 
dancing with him and each other. Noise, noise, the 
Europeanized band louder, incense on the altar, sweat, 
the blaze of lights, wind in the bananas, noise, thunder, 
eleven-fifty by his wrist-watch, seen as he threw up his 
hands and detached the tiny reverberation that was his 
soul. Louder shouts in the crowd. He danced on. The 
boys and men who were squatting in the aisles were lifted 
forcibly and dropped without changing their shapes into 
the laps of their neighbours. Down the path thus cleared 
advanced a litter, 


TEMPLE 287 


It was the aged ruler of the state, brought against the 
advice of his physicians to witness the Birth ceremony. 

No one greeted the Rajah, nor did he wish it; this 
was no moment for human glory. Nor could the litter 
be set down, lest it defiled the temple by becoming a 
throne. He was lifted out of it while its feet remained 
in air, and deposited on the carpet close to the altar, 
his immense beard was straightened, his legs tucked under 
him, a paper containing red powder was placed in his 
hand. ‘There he sat, leaning against a pillar, exhausted 
with illness, his eyes magnified by many unshed tears. 

He had not to wait long. In a land where all else 
was unpunctual, the hour of the Birth was chronometri- 
cally observed. Three minutes before it was due, a 
Brahman brought forth a model of the village of Gokul 
(the Bethlehem in that nebulous story) and placed it in 
front of the altar. The model was on a wooden tray 
about a yard square; it was of clay, and was gaily blue 
and white with streamers and paint. Here, upon a chair 
too small for him and with a head too large, sat King 
Kansa, who is Herod, directing the murder of some 
Innocents, and in a corner, similarly proportioned, stood 
the father and mother of the Lord, warned to depart in 
a dream. The model was not holy, but more than a 
decoration, for it diverted men from the actual image 
of the God, and increased their sacred bewilderment. 
Some of the villagers thought the Birth had occurred, 
saying with truth that the Lord must have been born, 
or they could not see Him. But the clock struck mid- 
night, and simultaneously the rending note of the conch 
broke forth, followed by the trumpeting of elephants; all 
who had packets of powder threw them at the altar, 
and in the rosy dust and incense, and clanging and shouts, 
Infinite Love took upon itself the form of Suri KrisHNA, 
and saved the world. All sorrow was annihilated, not 
only for Indians, but for foreigners, birds, caves, rail- 


288 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


ways, and the stars; all became joy, all laughter; there 
had never been disease nor doubt, misunderstanding, 
cruelty, fear. Some jumped in the air, others flung them- 
selves prone and embraced the bare feet of the universal 
lover ; the women behind the purdah slapped and shrieked ; 
the little girl slipped out and danced by herself, her black 
pigtails flying. Not an orgy of the body; the tradition 
of that shrine forbade it. But the human spirit had 
tried by a desperate contortion to ravish the unknown, 
flinging down science and history in the struggle, yes, 
beauty herself. Did it succeed? Books written after- 
wards say “ Yes.”’ But how, if there is such an event, 
can it be remembered afterwards? How can it be ex- 
pressed in anything but itself? Not only from the 
unbeliever are mysteries hid, but the adept himself cannot 
retain them. He may think, if he chooses, that he has 
been with God, but as soon as he thinks it, it becomes 
history, and falls under the rules of time. 

A cobra of papier-maché now appeared on the carpet, 
also a wooden cradle swinging from a frame. Professor 
Godbole approached the latter with a red silk napkin in 
his arms. The napkin was God, not that it was, and 
the image remained in the blur of the altar. It was just 
a napkin, folded into a shape which indicated a baby’s. 
The Professor dandled it and gave it to the Rajah, who, 
making a great effort, said, ““I name this child Shri 
Krishna,” and tumbled it into the cradle. Tears poured 
from his eyes, because he had seen the Lord’s salvation. 
He was too weak to exhibit the silk baby to his people, 
his privilege in former years. His attendants lifted him 
up, a new path was cleared through the crowd, and he 
was carried away to a less sacred part of the palace. 
There, in a room accessible to Western science by an 
outer staircase, his physician, Dr. Aziz, awaited him. His 
Hindu physician, who had accompanied him to the shrine, 
briefly reported his symptoms. As the ecstasy receded, 
the invalid grew fretful. The bumping of the steam 


TEMPLE 289 


engine that worked the dynamo disturbed him, and he 
asked for what reason it had been introduced into his 
home. They replied that they would enquire, and 
administered a sedative. 

Down in the sacred corridors, joy had seethed to 
jollity. It was their duty to play various games to amuse 
the newly born God, and to simulate his sports with the 
wanton dairymaids of Brindaban. Butter played a prom- 
inent part in these. When the cradle had been removed, 
the principal nobles of the state gathered together for an 
innocent frolic. They removed their turbans, and one 
put a lump of butter on his forehead, and waited for 
it to slide down his nose into his mouth. Before it could 
arrive, another stole up behind him, snatched the melting 
morsel, and swallowed it himself. All laughed exultantly 
at discovering that the divine sense of humour coincided 
with their own. “God si love!” There is fun in 
heaven. God can play practical jokes upon Himself, draw 
chairs away from beneath His own posteriors, set His own 
turbans on fire, and steal His own petticoats when He 
bathes. By sacrificing good taste, this worship achieved 
what Christianity has shirked: the inclusion of merri- 
ment. All spirit as well as all matter must participate 
in salvation, and if practical jokes are banned, the circle 
is incomplete. Having swallowed the butter, they played 
another game which chanced to be graceful: the fondling 
of Shri Krishna under the similitude of a child. A pretty 
red and gold ball is thrown, and he who catches it chooses 
a child from the crowd, raises it in his arms, and carries 
it round to be caressed. All stroke the darling creature 
for the Creator’s sake, and murmur happy words. The 
child is restored to his parents, the ball thrown on, and 
another child becomes for a moment the World’s desire. 
And the Lord bounds hither and thither through the 
aisles, chance, and the sport of chance, irradiating little 
mortals with His immortality. ... When they had 
played this long enough—and being exempt from bore- 


290 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


dom, they played it again and again, they played it again 
and again—they took many sticks and hit them together, 
whack smack, as though they fought the Pandava wars, 
and threshed and churned with them, and later on they 
hung from the roof of the temple, in a net, a great black 
earthenware jar, which was painted here and there with 
red, and wreathed with dried figs. Now came a rousing 
sport. Springing up, they struck at the jar with their 
sticks. It cracked, broke, and a mass of greasy rice and 
milk poured on to their faces. They ate and smeared one 
another’s mouths and dived between each other’s legs 
for what had been pashed upon the carpet. This way 
and that spread the divine mess, until the line of school- 
boys, who had somewhat fended off the crowd, broke for 
their share. The corridors, the courtyard, were filled 
with benign confusion. Also the flies awoke and claimed 
their share of God’s bounty. There was no quarrelling, 
owing to the nature of the gift, for blessed is the man 
who confers it on another, he imitates God. And those 
“imitations,” those “ substitutions,” continued to flicker 
through the assembly for many hours, awaking in each 
man, according to his capacity, an emotion that he would 
not have had otherwise. No definite image survived; at 
the Birth it was questionable whether a silver doll or a 
mud village, or a silk napkin, or an intangible spirit, or a 
pious resolution, had been born. Perhaps all these things! 
Perhaps none! Perhaps all birth is an allegory! Still, 
it was the main event of the religious year. It caused 
strange thoughts. Covered with grease and dust, Pro- 
fessor Godbole had once more developed the life of his 
spirit. He had, with increasing vividness, again seen 
Mrs. Moore, and round her faintly clinging forms of 
trouble. He was a Brahman, she Christian, but it made 
no difference, it made no difference whether she was a 
trick of his memory or a telepathic appeal. It was his 
duty, as it was his desire, to place himself in the position 
of the God and to love her, and to place himself in her 


TEMPLE 291 


position and to say to the God, “Come, come, come, 
come.” This was all he could do. How inadequate! 
But each according to his own capacities, and he knew 
that his own were small. “ One old Englishwoman and 
one little, little wasp,” he thought, as he stepped out of 
the temple into the grey of a pouring wet morning. “It 
does not seem much, still it is more than | am myself.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


—D* AZIZ left the palace at the same time. As he 
returned to his house—which stood in a pleasant 
garden further up the main street of the town—he could 
see his old patron paddling and capering in the slush 
ahead. ‘‘ Hullo!” he called, and it was the wrong re- 
mark, for the devotee indicated by circular gestures of his 
arms that he did not desire to be disturbed. He added, 
* Sorry,” which was right, for Godbole twisted his head 
till it didn’t belong to his body, and said in a strained 
voice that had no connection with his mind: “ He arrived 
at the European Guest House perhaps—at least possibly.” 

“Did he? Since when?” 

But time was too definite. He waved his arm more 
dimly and disappeared. Aziz knew who “he” was— 
Fielding—but he refused to think about him, because it 
disturbed his life, and he still trusted the floods to prevent 
him from arriving. A fine little river issued from his 
garden gate and gave him much hope. It was impossible 
that anyone could get across from Deora in such weather 
as this. Fielding’s visit was official. He had been trans- 
ferred from Chandrapore, and sent on a tour through 
Central India to see what the remoter states were doing 
with regard to English education. He had married, he 
had done the expected with Miss Quested, and Aziz had 
no wish to see him again. 


“Dear old Godbole,” he thought, and smiled. He had 


292 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


no religious curiosity, and had never discovered the 
meaning of this annual antic, but he was well assured 
that Godbole was a dear old man. He had come to 
Mau through him and remained on his account. With- 
out him he could never have grasped problems so totally 
different from those of Chandrapore. For here the 
cleavage was between Brahman and non-Brahman; 
Moslems and English were quite out of the running, and 
sometimes not mentioned for days. Since Godbole was 
a Brahman, Aziz was one also for purposes of intrigue: 
they would often joke about it together. The fissures in 
the Indian soil are infinite: Hinduism, so solid from a 
distance, is riven into sects and clans, which radiate and 
join, and change their names according to the aspect 
from which they are approached. Study it for years 
with the best teachers, and when you raise your head, 
nothing they have told you quite fits. Aziz, the day of 
his inauguration, had remarked: “I study nothing, I 
respect ’’—making an excellent impression. ‘There was 
now a minimum of prejudice against him. Nominally 
under a Hindu doctor, he was really chief medicine man 
to the court. He had to drop inoculation and such 
Western whims, but even at Chandrapore his profession 
had been a game, centering round the operating table, 
and here in the backwoods he let his instruments rust, 
ran his little hospital at half steam, and caused no undue 
alarm. 

His impulse to escape from the English was sound. 
They had frightened him permanently, and there are 
only two reactions against fright: to kick and scream 
on committees, or to retreat to a remote jungle, where 
the sahib seldom comes. His old lawyer friends wanted 
him to stop in British India and help agitate, and might 
have prevailed, but for the treachery of Fielding. The 
news had not surprised him in the least. A rift had 
opened between them after the trial when Cyril had not 
joined in his procession; those advocacies of the girl 


TEMPLE 293 


had increased it; then came the post-cards from Venice, 
so cold, so unfriendly that all agreed that something 
was wrong; and finally, after a silence, the expected 
letter from Hampstead. Mahmoud Ali was with him at 
the time. “Some news that will surprise you. I am 
to marry someone whom you know. ...” He did not 
read further. ‘“‘ Here it comes, answer for me raric 
he threw it to Mahmoud Ali. Subsequent letters he 
destroyed unopened. It was the end of a foolish experi- 
ment. And though sometimes at the back of his mind 
he felt that Fielding had made sacrifices for him, it was 
now all confused with his genuine hatred of the English. 
“T am an Indian at last,’ he thought, standing motion- 
less in the rain. 

Life passed pleasantly, the climate was healthy so that 
the children could be with him all the year round, and 
he had married again—not exactly a marriage, but he 
liked to regard it as one—and he read his Persian, wrote 
his poetry, had his horse, and sometimes got some shikar 
while the good Hindus looked the other way. His poems 
were all on one topic—Oriental womanhood. ‘“ The 
purdah must go,” was their burden, ‘‘ otherwise we shall 
never be free.” And he declared (fantastically) that 
India would not have been conquered if women as well 
as men had fought at Plassy. “ But we do not show our 
women to the foreigner ’’—not explaining how this was 
to be managed, for he was writing a poem. Bulbuls and 
roses would still persist, the pathos of defeated Islam re- 
mained in his blood and could not be expelled by moderni- 
ties. Illogical poems—like their writer. Yet they struck 
a true note: there cannot be a mother-land without new 
homes. In one poem—the only one funny old Godbole 
liked—he had skipped over the mother-land (whom he 
did not truly love) and gone straight to internationality. 
“Ah, that is bhakti; ah, my young friend, that is different 
and very good. Ah, India, who seems not to move, will 
go straight there while the other nations waste their time. 





294 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


May I translate this particular one into Hindi? In fact, 
it might be rendered into Sanskrit almost, it is so en- 
lightened. Yes, of course, all your other poems are very 
good too. His Highness was saying to Colonel Maggs 
last time he came that we are proud of you ”—simpering 
slightly. 

Colonel Maggs was the Political Agent for the neigh- 
bourhood and Aziz’ dejected opponent. The Criminal 
Investigation Department kept an eye on Aziz ever since 
the trial—they had nothing actionable against him, but 
Indians who have been unfortunate must be watched, and 
to the end of his life he remained under observation, 
thanks to Miss Quested’s mistake. Colonel Maggs learnt 
with concern that a suspect was coming to Mau, and, 
adopting a playful manner, rallied the old Rajah for per- 
mitting a Moslem doctor to approach his sacred person. 
A few years ago, the Rajah would have taken the hint, 
for the Political Agent then had been a formidable figure, 
descending with all the thunders of Empire when it was 
most inconvenient, turning the polity inside out, requiring 
motor-cars and tiger-hunts, trees cut down that impeded 
the view from the Guest House, cows milked in his pres- 
ence, and generally arrogating the control of internal af- 
fairs. But there had been a change of policy in high 
quarters. Local thunders were no longer endorsed, and 
the group of little states that composed the agency dis- 
covered this and began comparing notes with fruitful 
result. To see how much, or how little, Colonel Maggs 
would stand, became an agreeable game at Mau, which 
was played by all the departments of State. He had to 
stand the appointment of Dr. Aziz. The Rajah did not 
take the hint, but replied that Hindus were less exclu- 
sive than formerly, thanks to the enlightened commands 
of the Viceroy, and he felt it his duty to move with the 
times. 

Yes, all had gone well hitherto, but now, when the rest 
of the state was plunged in its festival, he had a crisis 


TEMPLE 295 


of a very different sort. A note awaited him at his house. 
There was no doubt that Fielding had arrived overnight, 
nor much doubt that Godbole knew of his arrival, for the 
note was addressed to him, and he had read it before 
sending it on to Aziz, and had written in the margin, “ Is 
not this delightful news, but unfortunately my religious 
duties prevent me from taking any action.” Fielding 
announced that he had inspected Mudkul (Miss Derek’s 
former preserve), that he had nearly been drowned at 
Deora, that he had reached Mau according to time-table, 
and hoped to remain there two days, studying the various 
educational innovations of his old friend. Nor had he 
come alone. His wife and her brother accompanied him. 
And then the note turned into the sort of note that always 
did arrive from the State Guest House. Wanting some- 
thing. Noeggs. Mosquito nets torn. When would they 
pay their respects to His Highness? Was it correct that 
a torchlight procession would take place? If so, might 
they view it? They didn’t want to give trouble, but 1f 
they might stand in a balcony, or if they might go out 
ime datine, «Aziz tote the note up.) le, had had 
enough of showing Miss Quested native life. Treacher- 
ous hideous harridan! Bad people altogether. He hoped 
to avoid them, though this might be difficult, for they 
would certainly be held up for several days at Mau. 
Down country, the floods were even worse, and the pale 
grey faces of lakes had appeared in the direction of the 
Asirgarh railway station. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


ONG before he discovered Mau, another young Mo- 
hammedan had retired there—a saint. His mother 

said to him, “ Free prisoners.” So he took a sword and 
went up to the fort. He unlocked a door, and the pris- 
oners streamed out and resumed their previous occupa- 


296 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


tions, but the police were too much annoyed and cut off 
the young man’s head. Ignoring its absence, he made 
his way over the rocks that separate the fort and the town, 
killing policemen as he went, and he fell outside his 
mother’s house, having accomplished her orders. Conse- 
quently there are two shrines to him to-day—that of the 
Head above, and that of the Body below—and they are 
worshipped by the few Mohammedans who live near, and 
by Hindus also. “ There is no God but God ’’; that sym- 
metrical injunction melts in the mild airs of Mau; it 
belongs to pilgrimages and universities, not to feudalism 
and agriculture. When Aziz arrived, and found that even 
Islam was idolatrous, he grew scornful, and longed to 
purify the place, like Alamgir. But soon he didn’t mind, 
like Akbar. After all, this saint had freed prisoners, and 
he himself had lain in prison. The Shrine of the Body 
lay in his own garden and produced a weekly crop of 
lamps and flowers, and when he saw them he recalled his 
sufferings. The Shrine of the Head made a nice short 
walk for the children. He was off duty the morning 
after the great pujah, and he told them to come. Jemila 
held his hand. Ahmed and Karim ran in front, arguing 
what the body looked like as it came staggering down, 
and whether they would have been frightened if they 
met it. He didn’t want them to grow up superstitious, 
so he rebuked them, and they answered yes, father, for 
they were well brought up, but, like himself, they were 
impervious to argument, and after a polite pause they 
continued saying what their natures compelled them to 
say. 

A slim, tall eight-sided building stood at the top of the 
slope, among some bushes. This was the Shrine of the 
Head. It had not been roofed, and was indeed merely a 
screen. Inside it crouched a humble dome, and inside 
that, visible through a grille, was a truncated gravestone, 
swathed in calico. The inner angles of the screen were 
cumbered with bees’ nests, and a gentle shower of broken 


TEMPLE 297 


wings and other aerial oddments kept falling, and had 
strewn the damp pavement with their flue. Ahmed, ap- 
prized by Mohammed Latif of the character of the bee, 
said, “They will not hurt us, whose lives are chaste,” 
and pushed boldly in; his sister was more cautious. From 
the shrine they went to a mosque, which, in size and de- 
sign, resembled a fire-screen ; the arcades of Chandrapore 
had shrunk to a flat piece of ornamental stucco, with pro- 
tuberances at either end to suggest minarets. The funny 
little thing didn’t even stand straight, for the rock on 
which it had been put was slipping down the hill. It, 
and the shrine, were a strange outcome of the protests of 
Arabia. 

They wandered over the old fort, now deserted, and 
admired the various views. The scenery, according to 
their standards, was delightful—the sky grey and black, 
bellyfuls of rain all over it, the earth pocked with pools 
of water and slimy with mud. A magnificent monsoon— 
the best, for three years, the tanks already full, bumper 
crops possible. Out towards the river (the route by which 
the Fieldings had escaped from Deora) the downpour 
had been enormous, the mails had to be pulled across by 
ropes. They could just see the break in the forest trees 
where the gorge came through, and the rocks above that 
marked the site of the diamond mine, glistening with wet. 
Close beneath was the suburban residence of the Junior 
Rani, isolated by floods, and Her Highness, lax about 
purdah, to be seen paddling with her handmaidens in the 
garden and waving her sari at the monkeys on the roof. 
But better not look close beneath, perhaps—nor towards 
the European Guest House either. Beyond the Guest 
House rose another grey-green gloom of hills, covered 
with temples like little white flames. There were over 
two hundred gods in that direction alone, who visited 
each other constantly, and owned numerous cows, and all 
the betel-leaf industry, besides having shares in the Asir- 
garh motor omnibus. Many of them were in the palace 


298 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


at this moment, having the time of their lives; others, too 
large or proud to travel, had sent symbols to represent 
them. The air was thick with religion and rain. 

Their white shirts fluttering, Ahmed and Karim ran 
about over the fort, shrieking with joy. Presently they 
intersected a line of prisoners, who were looking aim- 
lessly at an old bronze gun. “ Which of you is to be 
pardoned?” they asked. For to-night was the procession 
of the Chief God, when He would leave the palace, 
escorted by the whole power of the State, and pass by 
the Jail, which stood down in the town now. As He did 
so, troubling the waters of our civilization, one prisoner 
would be released, and then He would proceed to the 
great Mau tank that stretched as far as the Guest House 
garden, where something else would happen, some final 
or subsidiary apotheosis, after which He would submit 
to the experience of sleep. The Aziz family did not grasp 
as much as this, being Moslem, but the visit to the Jail 
was common knowledge. Smiling, with downcast eyes, 
the prisoners discussed with the gentry their chances of 
salvation. Except for the irons on their legs, they re- 
sembled other men, nor did they feel different. Five of 
them, who had not yet been brought to trial, could expect 
no pardon, but all who had been convicted were full of 
hope. They did not distinguish between the God and 
the Rajah in their minds, both were too far above them; 
but the guard was better educated, and ventured to en- 
quire after His Highness’s health. 

“It always improves,” replied the medicine man. As 
a matter of fact, the Rajah was dead, the ceremony over- 
night had overtaxed his strength. His death was being 
concealed lest the glory of the festival were dimmed. The 
Hindu physician, the Private Secretary, and a confidential! 
servant remained with the corpse, while Aziz had assumed 
the duty of being seen in public, and misleading people. 
He had liked the ruler very much, and might not prosper 


TEMPLE 299 


under his successor, yet he could not worry over such 
problems yet, for he was involved in the illusion he helped 
to create. The children continued to run about, hunting 
for a frog to put in Mohammed Latif’s bed, the little 
fools. Hundreds of frogs lived in their own garden, but 
they must needs catch one up on the fort. They reported 
two topis below. Fielding and his brother-in-law, in- 
stead of resting after their journey, were climbing the 
slope to the saint’s tomb! 

“Throw stones?” asked Karim. 

“ Put powdered glass in their pan? ” 

** Ahmed, come here for such wickedness.” He raised 
his hand to smite his firstborn, but allowed it to be kissed 
instead. It was sweet to have his sons with him at this 
moment, and to know they were affectionate and brave. 
He pointed out that the Englishmen were State guests, 
so must not be poisoned, and received, as always, gentle 
yet enthusiastic assent to his words. 

The two visitors entered the octagon, but rushed out 
at once pursued by some bees. Hither and thither they 
ran, beating their heads; the children shrieked with de- 
rision, and out of heaven, as if a plug had been pulled, 
fell a jolly dollop of rain. Aziz had not meant to greet 
his former friend, but the incident put him into an excel- 
lent temper. He felt compact and strong. He shouted 
out, “ Hullo, gentlemen, are you in trouble?” 

The brother-in-law exclaimed; a bee had got him. 

“ Lie down in a pool of water, my dear sir—here are 
plenty. Don’t come near me. . . . I cannot control them, 
they are State bees; complain to His Highness of their 
behaviour.” There was no real danger, for the rain was 
increasing. The swarm retired to the shrine. He went 
up to the stranger and pulled a couple of stings out of his 
wrist, remarking, “ Come, pull yourself together and be 
aman.” 

“ How do you do, Aziz, after all this time? I heard 


300 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


you were settled in here,” Fielding called to him, but not 
in friendly tones. “I suppose a couple of stings don’t 
signify.” 

“Not the least. Tl send an embrocation over to the 
Guest House. I heard you were settled in there.” 

‘““Why have you not answered my letters?” he asked, 
going straight for the point, but not reaching it, owing 
to buckets of rain. His companion, new to the country, 
cried, as the drops drummed on his topi, that the bees 
were renewing their attack. Fielding checked his antics 
rather sharply, then said: “Is there a short cut down to 
our carriage? We must give up our walk. The weather’s 
pestilential.” 

“Yes. That way.” 

“Are you not coming down yourself? ” 

Aziz sketched a comic salaam; like all Indians, he was 
skilful in the slighter impertinences. ‘I tremble, I obey,” 
the gesture said, and it was not lost upon Fielding. They 
walked down a rough path to the road—the two men first; 
the brother-in-law (boy rather than man) next, in a state 
over his arm, which hurt; the three Indian children last, 
noisy and impudent—all six wet through. 

bul lOw COCs it mayzize us 

“In my usual health.” 

“ Are you making anything out of your life here?” 

“How much do you make out of yours?” 

“Who is in charge of the Guest House?” he asked, 
giving up his slight effort to recapture their intimacy, and 
growing more official; he was older and sterner. 

“His Highness’s Private Secretary, probably.” 

“Where is he, then?” 

“T don’t know.” 

“ Because not a soul’s been near us since we arrived.” 

by Reallvan 

“T wrote beforehand to the Durbar, and asked if a 
visit was convenient. I was told it was, and arranged my 
tour accordingly; but the Guest House servants appear 


TEMPLE 301 


to have no definite instructions, we can’t get any eggs, 
also my wife wants to go out in the boat.” 

“There are two boats.” 

“ Exactly, and no oars.” 

“Colonel Maggs broke the oars when here last.” 

meAll fours? 

“ He is a most powerful man.” 

“If the weather lifts, we want to see your torchlight 
procession from the water this evening,” he pursued. “I 
wrote to Godbole about it, but he has taken no notice; it’s 
a place of the dead.” 

“Perhaps your letter never reached the Minister in 
question.” 

“Will there be any objection to English people watch- 
ing the procession? ”’ 

“T know nothing at all about the religion here. I 
should never think of watching it myself.” 

“We had a very different reception both at Mudkul 
and Deora, they were kindness itself at Deora, the 
Maharajah and Maharani wanted us to see everything.” 

“You should never have left them.” 

“Jump in, Ralph ’’—they had reached the carriage. 

“Jump in, Mr. Quested, and Mr. Fielding.” 

“Who on earth is Mr. Quested? ” 

“Do I mispronounce that well-known name? Is he 
not your wife’s brother? ” 

“Who on earth do you suppose I’ve married? ” 

“T’m only Ralph Moore,” said the boy, blushing, and 
at that moment there fell another pailful of the rain, and 
made a mist round their feet. Aziz tried to withdraw, 
but it was too late. 

““Quested? Quested? Don’t you know that my wife 
was Mrs. Moore’s daughter? ”’ 

He trembled, and went purplish grey; he hated the 
news, hated hearing the name Moore. 

“Perhaps this explains your odd attitude? ”’ 

“And pray what is wrong with my attitude? ” 


302 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


“ The preposterous letter you allowed Mahmoud Ali to 
write for you.” 

“This is a very useless conversation, I consider.” 

“ However did you make such a mistake?”’ said Field- 
ing, more friendly than before, but scathing and scorn- 
ful. “It’s almost unbelievable. I should think I wrote 
you half a dozen times, mentioning my wife by name. 
Miss Quested! What an extraordinary notion!” From 
his smile, Aziz guessed that Stella was beautiful. ‘“ Miss 
Quested is our best friend, she introduced us, but... 
what an amazing notion. Aziz, we must thrash this mis- 
understanding out later on. It is clearly some deviltry 
of Mahmoud Ali’s. He knows perfectly well I married 
Miss Moore. He called her ‘ Heaslop’s sister ’ in his inso- 
lent letter to me.” 

The name woke furies in him. ‘* So she is, and here is 
Heaslop’s brother, and you his brother-in-law, and good- 
bye.” Shame turned into a rage that brought back his 
self-respect. “‘ What does it matter to me who you 
marry? Don’t trouble me here at Mau is all I ask. I] 
do not want you, I do not want one of you in my private 
life, with my dying breath I say it. Yes, yes, I made 
a foolish blunder; despise me and feel cold. I thought 
you married my enemy. I never read your letter. Mah- 
moud Ali deceived me. I thought you’d stolen my money, 
but ’—he clapped his hands together, and his children 
gathered round him—“ it’s as if you stole it. I forgive 
Mahmoud Ali all things, because he loved me.” Then 
pausing, while the rain exploded like pistols, he said, ““ My 
heart is for my own people henceforward,” and turned 
away. Cyril followed him through the mud, apologizing, 
laughing a little, wanting to argue and reconstruct, point- 
ing out with irrefragable logic that he had married, not 
Heaslop’s betrothed, but Heaslop’s sister. What differ- 
ence did it make at this hour of the day? He had built 
his life on a mistake, but he had built it. Speaking in 
Urdu, that the children might understand, he said: 


TEMPLE 303 


* Please do not follow us, whomever you marry. I wish 
no Englishman or Englishwoman to be my friend.” 

He returned to the house excited and happy. It had 
been an uneasy, uncanny moment when Mrs. Moore’s 
name was mentioned, stirring memories. ‘‘ Esmiss 
Esmoor . . .”—as though she was coming to help him. 
She had always been so good, and that youth whom he 
had scarcely looked at was her son, Ralph Moore, Stella 
and Ralph, whom he had promised to be kind to, and 
Stella had married Cyril. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


LL the time the palace ceased not to thrum and tum- 
tum. The revelation was over, but its effect lasted, 

and its effect was to make men feel that the revelation 
had not yet come. Hope existed despite fulfilment, as 
it will be in heaven. Although the God had been born, 
His procession—loosely supposed by many to be the birth 
—had not taken place. In normal years, the middle hours 
of this day were signalized by performances of great 
beauty in the private apartments of the Rajah. He owned 
a consecrated troupe of men and boys, whose duty it was 
to dance various actions and meditations of his faith 
before him. Seated at his ease, he could witness the 
Three Steps by which the Saviour ascended the universe 
to the discomfiture of Indra, also the death of the dragon, 
the mountain that turned into an umbrella, and the saddhu 
who (with comic results) invoked the God before dining. 
All culminated in the dance of the milkmaidens before 
Krishna, and in the still greater dance of Krishna before 
the milkmaidens, when the music and the musicians 
swirled through the dark blue robes of the actors into 
their tinsel crowns, and all became one.. The Rajah and 
his guests would then forget that this was a dramatic 
performance, and would worship the actors. Nothing of 


304 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


the sort could occur to-day, because death interrupts. It 
interrupted less here than in Europe, its pathos was less 
poignant, its irony less cruel. There were two claimants 
to the throne, unfortunately, who were in the palace now 
and suspected what had happened, yet they made no 
trouble, because religion is a living force to the Hindus, 
and can at certain moments fling down everything that 
is petty and temporary in their natures. The festival 
flowed on, wild and sincere, and all men loved each other, 
and avoided by instinct whatever could cause inconven- 
lence or pain. 

Aziz could not understand this, any more than an aver- 
age Christian could. He was puzzled that Mau should 
suddenly be purged from suspicion and _ self-seeking. 
Although he was an outsider, and excluded from their 
rites, they were always particularly charming to him at 
this time; he and his household received small courtesies 
and presents, just because he was outside. He had noth- 
ing to do all day, except to send the embrocation over to 
the Guest House, and towards sunset he remembered it, 
and looked round his house for a local palliative, for the 
dispensary was shut. He found a tin of ointment belong- 
ing to Mohammed Latif, who was unwilling it should be 
removed, for magic words had been spoken over it while 
it was being boiled down, but Aziz promised that he would 
bring it back after application to the stings: he wanted an 
excuse for a ride. 

The procession was beginning to form as he passed the 
palace. A large crowd watched the loading of the State 
palanquin, the prow of which protruded in the form of a 
silver dragon’s head through the lofty half-opened door. 
Gods, big and little, were getting aboard. He averted 
his eyes, for he never knew how much he was supposed 
to see, and nearly collided with the Minister of Educa- 
tion. “Ah, you might make me late’’—meaning that 
the touch of a non-Hindu would necessitate another bath; 
the words were spoken without moral heat. ‘ Sorry,” 


TEMPLE 305 


said Aziz. The other smiled, and again mentioned the 
Guest House party, and when he heard that Fielding’s 
wife was not Miss Quested after all, remarked ‘‘ Ah, no, 
he married the sister of Mr. Heaslop. Ah, exactly, I 
have known that for over a year ’’—also without heat. 
“Why did you not tell me? Your silence plunged me 
into a pretty pickle.” Godbole, who had never been 
known to tell anyone anything, smiled again, and said 
in deprecating tones: “ Never be angry with me. I am, 
as far as my limitations permit, your true friend; besides, 
it is my holy festival.” Aziz always felt like a baby in 
that strange presence, a baby who unexpectedly receives 
a toy. He smiled also, and turned his horse into a lane, 
for the crush increased. The Sweepers’ Band was arriv- 
ing. Playing on sieves and other emblems of their pro- 
fession, they marched straight at the gate of the palace 
with the air of a victorious army. All other music was 
silent, for this was ritually the moment of the Despised 
and Rejected; the God could not issue from his temple 
until the unclean Sweepers played their tune, they were 
the spot of filth without which the spirit cannot cohere. 
For an instant the scene was magnificent. The doors 
were thrown open, and the whole court was seen inside, 
barefoot and dressed in white robes; in the fairway stood 
the Ark of the Lord, covered with cloth of gold and 
flanked by peacock fans and by stiff circular banners of 
crimson. It was full to the brim with statuettes and 
flowers. As it rose from the earth on the shoulders of 
its bearers, the friendly sun of the monsoons shone forth 
and flooded the world with colour, so that the yellow 
tigers painted on the palace walls seemed to spring, and 
pink and green skeins of cloud to link up the upper sky. 
The palanquin moved. ... The lane was full of State 
elephants, who would follow it, their howdahs empty out 
of humility. Aziz did not pay attention to these sanc- 
tities, for they had no connection with his own; he felt 
bored, slightly cynical, like his own dear Emperor Babur, 


406 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


who came down from the north and found in Hindustan 
no good fruit, no fresh water or witty conversation, not 
even a friend. 

The lane led quickly out of the town on to high rocks 
and jungle. Here he drew rein and examined the great 
Mau tank, which lay exposed beneath him to its remotest 
curve. Reflecting the evening clouds, it filled the nether- 
world with an equal splendour, so that earth and sky 
leant toward one another, about to clash in ecstasy. He 
spat, cynical again, more cynical than before. For in 
the centre of the burnished circle a small black blot was 
advancing—the Guest House boat. Those English had 
improvised something to take the place of oars, and were 
proceeding in their work of patrolling India. The sight 
endeared the Hindus by comparison, and looking back at 
the milk-white hump of the palace, he hoped that they 
would enjoy carrying their idol about, for at all events 
it did not pry into other people’s lives. This pose of “ see- 
ing India” which had seduced him to Miss Quested at 
Chandrapore was only a form of ruling India; no sym- 
pathy lay behind it; he knew exactly what was going on in 
the boat as the party gazed at the steps down which the 
image would presently descend, and debated how near 
they might row without getting into trouble officially. 

He did not give up his ride, for there would be servants 
at the Guest House whom he could question; a little in- 
formation never comes amiss. He took the path by the 
sombre promontory that contained the royal tombs. Like 
the palace, they were of snowy stucco, and gleamed by 
their internal light, but their radiance grew ghostly under 
approaching night. The promontory was covered with 
lofty trees, and the fruit-bats were unhooking from the 
boughs and making kissing sounds as they grazed the 
surface of the tank; hanging upside down all the day, 
they had grown thirsty. The signs of the contented 
Indian evening multiplied; frogs on all sides, cow-dung 
burning eternally; a flock of belated hornbills overhead, 


TEMPLE 307 


looking like winged skeletons as they flapped across the 
gloaming. There was death in the air, but not sadness; 
a compromise had been made between destiny and desire, 
and even the heart of man acquiesced. 

The European Guest House stood two hundred feet 
above the water, on the crest of a rocky and wooded spur 
that jutted from the jungle. By the time Aziz arrived, 
the water had paled to a film of mauve-grey, and the boat 
vanished entirely. A sentry slept in the Guest House 
porch, lamps burned in the cruciform of the deserted 
rooms. He went from one room to another, inquisitive, 
and malicious. Two letters lying on the piano rewarded 
him, and he pounced and read them promptly. He was 
not ashamed to do this. The sanctity of private corre- 
spondence has never been ratified by the East. More- 
over, Mr. McBryde had read all his letters in the past, 
and spread their contents. One letter—the more inter- 
esting of the two—was from Heaslop to Fielding. It 
threw light on the mentality of his former friend, and it 
hardened him further against him. Much of it was about 
Ralph Moore, who appeared to be almost an imbecile. 
*“ Hand on my brother whenever suits you. I write to 
you because he is sure to make a bad bunderbust.”” Then: 
“TI quite agree—life is too short to cherish grievances, 
also I’m relieved you feel able to come into line with the 
Oppressors of India to some extent. We need all the 
support we can get. I hope that next time Stella comes 
my way she will bring you with her, when I will make you 
as comfortable as a bachelor can—it’s certainly time we 
met. My sister’s marriage to you coming after my 
mother’s death and my own difficulties did upset me, and 
I was unreasonable. It is about time we made it up 
properly, as you say—let us leave it at faults on both 
sides. Glad about your son and heir. When next any 
of you write to Adela, do give her some sort of message 
from me, for I should like to make my peace with her 
too. You are lucky to be out of British India at the 


308 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


present moment. Incident after incident, all due to 
propaganda, but we can’t lay our hands on the connect- 
ing thread. The longer one lives here, the more certain 
one gets that everything hangs together. My personal 
opinion is, it’s the Jews.” 

Thus far the red-nosed boy. Aziz was distracted for 
a moment by blurred sounds coming from over the water; 
the procession was under way. The second letter was 
from Miss Quested to Mrs. Fielding. It contained one 
or two interesting touches. The writer hoped that 
“ Ralph will enjoy his India more than I did mine,’ and 
appeared to have given him money for this purpose— 
“my debt which I shall never repay in person.”” What 
debt did Miss Quested imagine she owed the country? 
He did not relish the phrase. Talk of Ralph’s health. It 
was all “ Stella and Ralph,” even ‘‘ Cyril” and “ Ronny ” 
—all so friendly and sensible, and written in a spirit he 
could not command. He envied the easy intercourse that 
is only possible in a nation whose women are free. These 
five people were making up their little difficulties, and 
closing their broken ranks against the alien. Even Heas- 
lop was coming in. Hence the strength of England, and 
in a spurt of temper he hit the piano, and since the notes 
had swollen and stuck together in groups of threes, he 
produced a remarkable noise. 

“* Oh, oh, who is that?’ said a nervous and respectful 
voice; he could not remember where he had heard its 
tones before. Something moved in the twilight of an 
adjoining room. He replied, ‘‘ State doctor, ridden over 
to enquire, very little English,’ slipped the letters into 
his pocket, and to show that he had free entry to the 
Guest House, struck the piano again. 

Ralph Moore came into the light. 

What a strange-looking youth, tall, prematurely aged, 
the big blue eyes faded with anxiety, the hair impover- 
ished and tousled! Not a type that is often exported 


TEMPLE 309 


imperially. The doctor in Aziz thought, “ Born of too 
old a mother,” the poet found him rather beautiful. 

‘“‘ IT was unable to call earlier owing to pressure of work. 
How are the celebrated bee-stings?”’ he asked patroniz- 
ingly. 

“I—I was resting, they thought I had better; they 
throb rather.” 

His timidity and evident ‘ newness ” had complicated 
effects on the malcontent. Speaking threateningly, he 
said, ‘“‘ Come here, please, allow me to look.’’ They were 
practically alone, and he could treat the patient as Cal- 
lendar had treated Nureddin. 

“You said this morning 

“The best of doctors make mistakes. Come here, 
please, for the diagnosis under the lamp. I am pressed 
for time.” 

“ Aoug 

** What is the matter, pray?” 

Your hands are unkind.” 

He started and glanced down at them. The extiaordi- 
nary youth was right, and he put them behind his back 
before replying with outward anger: ‘“ What the devil 
have my hands to do with you? This is a most strange 
remark. I ama qualified doctor, who will not hurt you.” 

“T don’t mind pain, there is no pain.” 

BeNO pain? 77 

MeN otreally,: 

** Excellent news,” sneered Aziz. 

“ But there is cruelty.” 

“IT have brought you some salve, but how to put it on 
in your present nervous state becomes a problem,” he con- 
tinued, after a pause. 

“* Please leave it with me.” 

“Certainly not. It returns to my dispensary at once.” 
He stretched forward, and the other retreated to the 
farther side of a table. “* Now, do you want me to treat 


’) 





99 





310 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


your stings, or do you prefer an English doctor? There 
is one at Asirgarh. Asirgarh is forty miles away, and 
the Ringnod dam broken. Now you see how you are 
placed. I think I had better see Mr. Fielding about you; 
this is really great nonsense, your present behaviour.” 

“They are out in a boat,” he replied, glancing about 
him for support. 

Aziz feigned intense surprise. ‘“‘ They have not gone 
in the direction of Mau, I hope. Ona night like this the 
people become most fanatical.” And, as if to confirm 
him, there was a sob, as though the lips of a giant had 
parted; the procession was approaching the Jail. 

“You should not treat us like this,” he challenged, 
and this time Aziz was checked, for the voice, though 
frightened, was not weak. 

“ Like what? ”’ 

“Dr. Aziz, we have done you no harm.” 

“Aha, you know my name, I see. Yes, I am Aziz. 
No, of course your great friend Miss Quested did me no 
harm at the Marabar.” 

Drowning his last words, all the guns of the State went 
off. A rocket from the Jail garden gave the signal. The 
prisoner had been released, and was kissing the feet of 
the singers. Rose-leaves fall from the houses, sacred 
spices and coco-nut are brought forth. . .. It was the 
half-way moment; the God had extended His temple, and 
paused exultantly. Mixed and confused in their passage, 
the rumours of salvation entered the Guest House. They 
were startled and moved on to the porch, drawn by the 
sudden illumination. The bronze gun up on the fort 
kept flashing, the town was a blur of light, in which the 
houses seemed dancing, and the palace waving little wings. 
The water below, the hills and sky above, were not in- 
volved as yet; there was still only a little light and song 
struggling among the shapeless lumps of the universe. 
The song became audible through much repetition; the 
choir was repeating and inverting the names of deities. 


TEMPLE 311 


“ Radhakrishna Radhakrishna, 
Radhakrishna Radhakrishna, 
Krishnaradha Radhakrishna, 
Radhakrishna Radhakrishna,” 


they sang, and woke the sleeping sentry in the Guest 
House; he leant upon his iron-tipped spear. 

“I must go back now, good night,” said Aziz, and held 
out his hand, completely forgetting that they were not 
friends, and focusing his heart on something more dis- 
tant than the caves, something beautiful. His hand was 
taken, and then he remembered how detestable he had 
been, and said gently, ‘ Don’t you think me unkind any 
more?” 

66 No,” 

“How can you tell, you strange fellow?” 

“Not difficult, the one thing I always know.” 

“Can you always tell whether a stranger is your 
friend?” 

66 pyiess. 

“Then you are an Oriental.” He unclasped as he 
spoke, with a little shudder. Those words—he had said 
them to Mrs. Moore in the mosque in the beginning of 
the cycle, from. which, after so much suffering, he had 
got free. Never be friends with the English! Mosque, 
caves, mosque, caves. And here he was starting again. 
He handed the magic ointment to him. “ Take this, 
think of me when you use it. I shall never want it back. 
IT must give you one little present, and it is all I have 
got; you are Mrs. Moore’s son.” 

“T am that,” he murmured to himself; and a part of 
Aziz’ mind that had been hidden seemed to move and 
force its way to the top. 

“But you are Heaslop’s brother also, and alas, the two 
nations cannot be friends.” 

*T know. Not yet.” 

“Did your mother speak to you about me?” 

“Yes.” And with a swerve of voice and body that 


312 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


Aziz did not follow he added, ‘‘In her letters, in her 
letters. She loved you.” 

“Yes, your mother was my best friend in all the 
world.”’ He was silent, puzzled by his own great grati- 
tude. What did this eternal goodness of Mrs. Moore 
amount to? To nothing, if brought to the test of thought. 
She had not borne witness in his favour, nor visited him 
in the prison, yet she had stolen to the depths of his 
heart, and he always adored her. ‘‘ This is our monsoon, 
the best weather,” he said, while the lights of the pro- 
cession waved as though embroidered on an agitated 
curtain. ‘‘ How I wish she could have seen them, our 
rains. Now is the time when all things are happy, young 
and old. They are happy out there with their savage 
noise, though we cannot follow them; the tanks are all 
full so they dance, and this is India. I wish you were 
not with officials, then I would show you my country, but 
I cannot. Perhaps I will just take you out on the water 
now, for one short half-hour.” 

Was the cycle beginning again? His heart was too 
full to draw back. He must slip out in the darkness, and 
do this one act of homage to Mrs. Moore’s son. He knew 
where the oars were—hidden to deter the visitors from. 
going out—and he brought the second pair, in case they 
met the other boat; the Fieldings had pushed themselves 
out with long poles, and might get into difficulties, for 
the wind was rising. 

Once on the water, he became easy. One kind action 
was with him always a channel for another, and soon 
the torrent of his hospitality gushed forth and he began 
doing the honours of Mau and persuading himself that 
he understood the wild procession, which increased in 
lights and sounds as the complications of its ritual de- 
veloped. There was little need to row, for the freshen- 
ing gale blew them in the direction they desired. Thorns 
scratched the keel, they ran into an islet and startled 
some cranes. The strange temporary life of the August 


TEMPLE 313 


flood-water bore them up and seemed as though it would 
last for ever. The boat was a rudderless dinghy. Hud- 
dled up in the stern, with the spare pair of oars in his 
arms, the guest asked no questions about details. There 
was presently a flash of lightning, followed by a second 
flash—little red scratches on the ponderous sky. ‘‘ Was 
that the Rajah?” he asked. 

“What—what do you mean?” 

“* Row back.” 

“ But there’s no Rajah—nothing: ts 

** Row back, you will see what I mean.” 

Aziz found it hard work against the advancing wind. 
But he fixed his eyes on the pin of light that marked the 
Guest House and backed a few strokes. 

bplnereu, 7 

Floating in the darkness was a king, who sat under a 
canopy, in shining royal robes... . 

“T can’t tell you what that is, I’m sure,” he whispered. 
“His Highness is dead. I think we should go back at 
once.” 

They were close to the promontory of the tombs, and 
had looked straight into the chhatri of the Rajah’s father 
through an opening in the trees. That was the explana- 
tion. He had heard of the image—made to imitate life 
at enormous expense—but he had never chanced to see 
it before, though he frequently rowed on the lake. There 
was only one spot from which it could be seen, and Ralph 
had directed him to it. Hastily he pulled away, feeling 
that his companion was not so much a visitor as a guide. 
He remarked, “ Shall we go back now?” 

“There is still the procession.” 

“Td rather not go nearer—they have such strange 
customs, and might hurt you.” 

eeelittlemnearens: 

Aziz obeyed. He knew with his heart that this was 
Mrs. Moore’s son, and indeed until his heart was in- 
volved he knew nothing. “ Radhakrishna Radhakrishna 





314 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


Radhakrishna Radhakrishna Krishnaradha,”’ went the 
chant, then suddenly changed, and in the interstice he 
heard, almost certainly, the syllables of salvation that had 
sounded during his trial at Chandrapore. 

“Mr. Moore, don’t tell anyone that the Rajah is dead. 
It is a secret still, I am supposed not to say. We pre- 
tend he is alive until after the festival, to prevent unhappi- 
ness. Do you want to go still nearer?” 

66 LY ecru 

He tried to keep the boat out of the glare of the torches 
that began to star the other shore. Rockets kept going 
off, also the guns. Suddenly, closer than he had calcu- 
lated, the palanquin of Krishna appeared from behind 
a ruined wall, and descended the carven glistening water- 
steps. On either side of it the singers tumbled, a woman 
prominent, a wild and beautiful young saint with flowers 
in her hair. She was praising God without attributes— 
thus did she apprehend Him. Others praised Him with- 
out attributes, seeing Him in this or that organ of the 
body or manifestation of the sky. Down they rushed to 
the foreshore and stood in the small waves, and a sacred 
meal was prepared, of which those who felt worthy par- 
took. Old Godbole detected the boat, which was drifting 
in on the gale, and he waved his arms—whether in wrath 
or joy Aziz never discovered. Above stood the secular 
power of Mau—elephants, artillery, crowds—and high 
above them a wild tempest started, confined at first to the 
upper regions of the air. Gusts of wind mixed darkness 
and light, sheets of rain cut from the north, stopped, cut 
from the south, began rising from below, and across them 
struggled the singers, sounding every note but terror, and 
preparing to throw God away, God Himself, (not that 
God can be thrown) into the storm. Thus was He 
thrown year after year, and were others thrown—little 
images of Ganpati, baskets of ten-day corn, tiny tazias 
after Mohurram—scapegoats, husks, emblems of passage; 
a passage not easy, not now, not here, not to be appre- 


TEMPLE 315 


hended except when it is unattainable: the God to be 
thrown was an emblem of that. 

The village of Gokul reappeared upon its tray. It was 
the substitute for the silver image, which never left its 
haze of flowers; on behalf of another symbol, it was to 
perish. A servitor took it in his hands, and tore off the 
blue and white streamers. He was naked, broad-shoul- 
dered, thin-waisted—the Indian body again triumphant— 
and it was his hereditary office to close the gates of sal- 
vation. He entered the dark waters, pushing the village 
before him, until the clay dolls slipped off their chairs 
and began to gutter in the rain, and King Kansa was con- 
founded with the father and mother of the Lord. Dark 
and solid, the little waves sipped, then a great wave 
washed and then English voices cried “ Take care!” 

The boats had collided with each other. 

The four outsiders flung out their arms and grappled, 
and, with oars and poles sticking out, revolved like a 
mythical monster in the whirlwind. The worshippers 
howled with wrath or joy, as they drifted forward help- 
lessly against the servitor. Who awaited them, his beau- 
tiful dark face expressionless, and as the last morsels 
melted on his tray, it struck them. 

The shock was minute, but Stella, nearest to it, shrank 
into her husband’s arms, then reached forward, then 
flung herself against Aziz, and her motions capsized them. 
They plunged into the warm, shallow water, and rose 
struggling into a tornado of noise. The oars, the sacred 
tray, the letters of Ronny and Adela, broke loose and 
floated confusedly. Artillery was fired, drums beaten, 
the elephants trumpeted, and drowning all an immense 
peal of thunder, unaccompanied by lightning, cracked like 
a mallet on the dome. 

That was the climax, as far as India admits of one. 
The rain settled in steadily to its job of wetting every- 
body and everything through, and soon spoiled the cloth 
of gold on the palanquin and the costly disc-shaped 


316 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


banners. Some of the torches went out, fireworks didn’t 
catch, there began to be less singing, and the tray re- 
turned to Professor Godbole, who picked up a fragment 
of the mud adhering and smeared it on his forehead 
without much ceremony. Whatever had happened had 
happened, and while the intruders picked themselves up, 
the crowds of Hindus began a desultory move back into 
the town. The image went back too, and on the follow- 
ing day underwent a private death of its own, when some 
curtains of magenta and green were lowered in front of 
the dynastic shrine. The singing went on even longer 

. ragged edges of religion... unsatisfactory and 
undramatic tangles. . . . “God si love.”’ Looking back 
at the great blur of the last twenty-four hours, no man 
could say where was the emotional centre of it, any more 
than he could locate the heart of a cloud. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


RIENDS again, yet aware that they could meet no 
more, Aziz and Fielding went for their last ride in 

the Mau jungles. The floods had abated and the Rajah 
was officially dead, so the Guest House party were de- 
parting next morning, as decorum required. What with 
the mourning and the festival, the visit was a failure. 
Fielding had scarcely seen Godbole, who promised every 
day to show him over the King-Emperor George Fifth 
High School, his main objective, but always made some 
excuse. This afternoon Aziz let out what had happened: 
the King-Emperor had been converted into a granary, and 
the Minister of Education did not like to admit this to 
his former Principal. The school had been opened only 
last year by the Agent to the Governor-General, and it 
still flourished on paper; he hoped to start it again before 
its absence was remarked and to collect its scholars be- 


TEMPLE 317 


fore they produced children of their own. Fielding 
laughed at the tangle and waste of energy, but he did 
not travel as lightly as in the past; education was a con- 
tinuous concern to him, because his income and the com- 
fort of his family depended on it. He knew that few 
Indians think education good in itself, and he deplored 
this now on the widest grounds. He began to say some- 
thing heavy on the subject of Native States, but the 
friendliness of Aziz distracted him. ‘This reconciliation 
was a success, anyhow. After the funny shipwreck there 
had been no more nonsense or bitterness, and they went 
back laughingly to their old relationship as if nothing 
had happened. Now they rode between jolly bushes and 
rocks. Presently the ground opened into full sunlight 
and they saw a grassy slope bright with butterflies, also 
a cobra, which crawled across doing nothing in particu- 
lar, and disappeared among some custard apple trees. 
There were round white clouds in the sky, and white pools 
on the earth; the hills in the distance were purple. The 
scene was as park-like as England, but did not cease being 
queer. They drew rein, to give the cobra elbow-room, 
and Aziz produced a letter that he wanted to send to Miss 
Quested. A charming letter. He wanted to thank his 
old enemy for her fine behaviour two years back: per- 
fectly plain was it now that she had behaved well. “As 
I fell into our largest Mau tank under circumstances our 
other friends will relate, I thought how brave Miss 
Quested was and decided to tell her so, despite my im- 
perfect English. Through you I am happy here with my 
children instead of in a prison, of that I make no doubt. 
My children shall be taught to speak of you with the 
greatest affection and respect.” 

“Miss Quested will be greatly pleased. I am glad you 
have seen her courage at last.” 

“T want to do kind actions all round and wipe out 
the wretched business of the Marabar for ever. I have 
been so disgracefully hasty, thinking you meant to get 


318 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


hold of my money: as bad a mistake as the cave itself.” 

“‘ Aziz, I wish you would talk to my wife. She too be- 
lieves that the Marabar is wiped out.” 

“ How so?” 

“TI don’t know, perhaps she might tell you, she won't 
tell me. She has ideas I don’t share—indeed, when I’m 
away from her I think them ridiculous. When I’m with 
her, I suppose because I’m fond of her, I feel different, 
I feel half dead and half blind. My wife’s after some- 
thing. You and I and Miss Quested are, roughly speak- 
ing, not after anything. We jog on as decently as we 
can, you a little in front—a laudable little party. But 
my wife is not with us.” 

“What are you meaning? Is Stella not faithful to 
you, Cyril? This fills me with great concern.” 

Fielding hesitated. He was not quite happy about his 
marriage. He was passionate physically again—the final 
flare-up before the clinkers of middle age—and he knew 
that his wife did not love him as much as he loved her, 
and he was ashamed of pestering her. But during the 
visit to Mau the situation had improved. There seemed 
a link between them at last—that link outside either par- 
ticipant that is necessary to every relationship. In the 
language of theology, their union had been blessed. He 
could assure Aziz that Stella was not only faithful to 
him, but likely to become more so; and trying to express 
what was not clear to himself, he added dully that dif- 
ferent people had different points of view. ‘“‘If you 
won't talk about the Marabar to Stella, why won’t you 
talk to Ralph? He is a wise boy really. And, (same 
metaphor) he rides a little behind her, though with her.” 

“Tell him also, I have nothing to say to him, but he 
is indeed a wise boy and has always one Indian friend. 
I partly love him because he brought me back to you to 
say good-bye. For this is good-bye, Cyril, though to 
think about it will spoil our ride and make us sad.” 

“No, we won’t think about it.” He too felt that this 


TEMPLE 319 


was their last free intercourse. All the stupid misunder- 
standings had been cleared up, but socially they had no 
meeting-place. He had thrown in his lot with Anglo- 
India. by marrying a countrywoman, and he was acquir- 
ing some of its limitations, and already felt surprise at 
his own past heroism. Would he to-day defy all his own 
people for the sake of a stray Indian? Aziz was a me- 
mento, a trophy, they were proud of each other, yet they 
must inevitably part. And, anxious to make what he 
could of this last afternoon, he forced himself to speak 
intimately about his wife, the person most dear to him. 
He said: “ From her point of view, Mau has been a 
success. It calmed her—both of them suffer from rest- 
lessness. She found something soothing, some solution 
of her queer troubles here.” After a silence—myriads 
of kisses around them as the earth drew the water in— 
he continued : “ Do you know anything about this Krishna 
business ?”’ 

‘““My dear chap, officially they call it Gokul Ashtami. 
All the States offices are closed, but how else should it 
concern you and me?” 

“Gokul is the village where Krishna was born—well, 
more or less born, for there’s the same hovering between 
it and another village as between Bethlehem and Naz- 
areth. What I want to discover is its spiritual side, if 
it has one.” 

“It is useless discussing Hindus with me. Living with 
them teaches me no more. When I think I annoy them, 
I do not. When I think I don’t annoy them, I do. Per- 
haps they will sack me for tumbling on to their dolls’- 
house; on the other hand, perhaps they will double my 
salary. ‘Time will prove. Why so curious about them?” 

“It’s difficult to explain. I never really understood or 
liked them, except an occasional scrap of Godbole. Does 
the old fellow still say ‘Come, come?’ ”’ 

“Oh, presumably.” 

Fielding sighed, opened his lips, shut them, then said 


320 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


with a little laugh, ‘I can’t explain, because it isn’t in 
words at all, but why do my wife and her brother like 
Hinduism, though they take no interest in its forms? 
They won't talk to me about this. They know I think a 
certain side of their lives isa mistake, and are shy. That’s 
why I wish you would talk to them, for at all events you’re 
Oriental.” 

Aziz refused to reply. He didn’t want to meet 
Stella and Ralph again, knew they didn’t want to meet 
him, was incurious about their secrets, and felt good old 
Cyril to be a bit clumsy. Something—not a sight, but a 
sound—flitted past him, and caused him to re-read his 
letter to Miss Quested. Hadn’t he wanted to say some- 
thing else to her? Taking out his pen, he added: “ For 
my own part, I shall henceforth connect you with the 
name that is very sacred in my mind, namely, Mrs. 
Moore.” When he had finished, the mirror of the scen- 
ery was shattered, the meadow disintegrated into butter- 
flies. A poem about Mecca—the Caaba of Union—the 
thornbushes where pilgrims die before they have seen the 
Friend—they flitted next; he thought of his wife; and 
then the whole semi-mystic, semi-sensuous overturn, so 
characteristic of his spiritual life, came to end like a land- 
slip and rested in its due place, and he found himself rid- 
ing in the jungle with his dear Cyril. 

“Oh, shut up,” he said. ‘ Don’t spoil our last hour 
with foolish questions. Leave Krishna alone, and talk 
about something sensible.” 

They did. All the way back to Mau they wrangled 
about politics. Each had hardened since Chandrapore, 
and a good knock about proved enjoyable. They trusted 
each other, although they were going to part, perhaps be- 
cause they were going to part. Fielding had “ no further 
use for politeness,” he said, meaning that the British Em- 
pire really can’t be abolished because it’s rude. Aziz re- 
torted, “ Very well, and we have no use for you,” and 
glared at him with abstract hate. Fielding said: ‘ Away 


TEMPLE seu 


from us, Indians go to seed at once. Look at the King- 
Emperor High School! Look at you, forgetting your 
medicine and going back to charms. Look at your 
poems.”—‘ Jolly good poems, I’m getting published Bom- 
bay side.’”’—‘“ Yes, and what do they say? Free our 
women and India wilt be free. Try it, my lad. Free 
your own lady in the first place, and see who'll wash 
Ahmed, Karim and Jemila’s faces. A nice situation! ”’ 

Aziz grew more excited. He rose in his stirrups and 
pulled at his horse’s head in the hope it would rear. 
Then he should feel in a battle. He cried: ‘‘ Clear out, 
all you Turtons and Burtons, We wanted to know you 
ten years back—now it’s too late. If we see you and sit 
on your committees, it’s for political reasons, don’t you 
make any mistake.’ His horse did rear. “ Clear out, 
clear out, I say. Why are we put to so much suffering? 
We used to blame you, now we blame ourselves, we 
grow wiser. Until England is in difficulties we keep 
silent, but in the next European war—aha, aha! Then 
is our time.” He paused, and the scenery, though it 
smiled, fell like a gravestone on any human hope. They 
cantered past a temple to Hanuman—God so loved the 
world that he took monkey’s flesh upon him—and past 
a Saivite temple, which invited to lust, but under the 
semblance of eternity, its obscenities bearing no relation 
to those of our flesh and blood. They splashed through 
butterflies and frogs; great trees with leaves like plates 
rose among the brushwood. The divisions of daily life 
were returning, the shrine had almost shut. 

“Who do you want instead of the English? The Japa- 
nese?’’ jeered Fielding, drawing rein. 

“No, the Afghans. My own ancestors.” 

“ Oh, your Hindu friends will like that, won’t they?” 

“Tt will be arranged—a conference of Oriental states- 
men.” 

“Tt will indeed be arranged.” 

“ Old story of ‘ We will rob every man and rape every 


322 A PASSAGE TO INDIA 


woman from Peshawar to Calcutta,’ I suppose, whieh 
you get some nobody to repeat and then quote every 
week in the Pioneer in order to frighten us into retain- 
ing you! We know!” Still he couldn’t quite fit in 
Afghans at Mau, and, finding he was in a corner, made 
his horse rear again until he remembered that he had, 
or ought to have, a mother-land. Then he shouted: 
“India shall be a nation! No foreigners of any sort! 
Hindu and Moslem and Sikh and all shall be one! 
Hurrah! Hurrah for India! Hurrah! Hurrah!” 

India a nation! What an apotheosis! Last comer to 
the drab nineteenth-century sisterhood! Waddling in at 
this hour of the world to take her seat! She, whose only 
peer was the Holy Roman Empire, she shall rank with 
Guatemala and Belgium perhaps! Fielding mocked again. 
And Aziz in an awful rage danced this way and that, 
not knowing what to do, and cried: ‘‘ Down with the 
English anyhow. That’s certain. Clear out, you fellows, 
double quick, I say. We may hate one another, but we 
hate you most. If I don’t make you go, Ahmed will, 
Karim will, if it’s fifty-five hundred years we shall get 
rid of you, yes, we shall drive every blasted Englishman 
into the sea, and then ’—he rode against him furiously— 
“and then,” he concluded, half kissing him, “‘ you and I 
shall be friends.” 

“Why can’t we be friends now?” said the other, hold- 
ing him affectionately. “It’s what I want. It’s what 
you want.” 

But the horses didn’t want it—they swerved apart; 
the earth didn’t want it, sending up rocks through which 
riders must pass single file; the temples, the tank, the 
jail, the palace, the birds, the carrion, the Guest House, 
that came into view as they issued from the gap and saw 
Mau beneath: they didn’t want it, they said in their hun- 
dred voices, ‘ No, not yet,” and the sky said, “ No, not 
there.” 

WEYBRIDGE, 1924. 


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